Visions of a Diesel Future
by ImHavok795
Summary: Humanity never found the Prothean ruins on Mars. Instead, they evolved on a different path technologically from the rest of the Galaxy. Atomic energy, biodiesel fuel, 1910-1950s aesthetics and attitudes. Meet a new Humanity. And all the supernatural horror that comes with them. (This version of the story is, as far as I can see, dead. Hop over to the new one!)
1. First Contact Failure

Aureus Viterius, Captain of the Turian Dreadnaught 'Victorious' with two cruisers, Inexorable and Indomitable and a handful of frigates were sent by the Hierarchy on their normal patrols, this time skirting the boundary of the yet-to-be explored Sol system. In truth, Captain Viterius thought the move moronic. To expand territory into such a place, what was the point? Indeed he thought that the place should be ignored but he wouldn't ignore his orders.

Thus he and those below him, literally and metaphorically, as Turian ship design put the captain at their rightful place above their crew, would follow his order to the letter.

"Readouts clean, Captain," Ensign Vixus reported "all's functioning as it should be." Viterius nodded, his bright red markings stark against his alabaster exoskeleton and skin.

"Good man, make sure it stays that way."

"Aye aye!"

"Captain, something on the scanner." Reported Ensign Aulus.

"What is it?" Viterius questioned, perhaps it wouldn't be such a waste of time.

"A mass relay, sir. It's dormant. But there are signatures around it, the readings are off the damned charts." Aulus frowned shaking his head "I can't make sense of what's causing it."

"The mass relay, perhaps?" Viterius wondered aloud, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

"I don't know sir, like I said: It's dormant."

"Bring it up on screen." So it was, a holographic image of the mass relay was brought up to the CIC of the Victorious, showing the titanic blue-grey double-ended prong shape of the mass relay, inner circles spinning lazily. So far, nothing seemed out of the ordinary for the Turian captain.

Until the image zoomed in.

"There it is. Ships! Ships by the relay!"

Ensign Aulus pointed at his screen's readout.

"They're...Captain, they're interacting with it. I think they're trying to activate the relay." The bridge was chilled to the bone, Viterius leaning against the railing. He kept his face stoic, but inside he almost lost control of his expression.

"You're sure they're activating the relay?" Viterius wanted to be sure.

"Sir, it's activating!" The relay sparked from its dormant state, a bright blue ball of energy flickering into existence for a second and then extinguishing like a match snuffed by a hard exhale.

Viterius drew in breath and closed his eyes. Council Law was Council Law. The aliens would have to be taught a lesson for sure.

"Close in and power weapons." Viterius ordered, the Ensign visibly startled as he looked back at his Captain

"Sir?" Vixus asked uncertainly "Are you sure? Shouldn't we try to contact them?" Viterius, in a deep part of his mind, knew the Ensign was correct. However, the law was law.

"They've broken the law, Ensign. Like it or not, the law must be enforced. Close in and power weapons, Ensign. We're going to do our duty to the Hierarchy and the Council."

Vixus' mandibles clicked. He knew his captain was right but a sense of dread overcame him. A premonition, almost, that he couldn't shake.

"Understood." Vixus acquiesced to his Captains order. "Guns powering and we're closing in." Vixus couldn't help saying a silent prayer that the engagement would go well.

Viterius nodded, satisfied. He used his omni-tool to open a comm. to the rest of the ship "General quarters, all hands: Man your battlestations!" The alarm went off a second afterward "This is not a drill!" the other ships in formation got a similar message and promptly set to their duty preparing for a fight.

Viterius looked out of the viewport and at the hologram of the ships ahead. They were strange in design, for sure.

They weren't just shaped like aquatic naval ships. They seemed to be naval ships brought into space with some modification. Huge, multi-gun turrets ran along the front and the back. Between the penultimate turrets of the front and back was a squat almost unseeable superstructure that undoubtedly must've been the bridges of the ships. Atop the superstructures seemed to be antennae and dishes, probably various sensors.

Blisters of smaller turrets broke up the rather symmetrical and handsome look of the ship making sort of bulbous portrusions where the weapons could swivel about.

The bottom of the ships were similarly armed though capable of firing on the opposite axis to the top guns.

With a glance, Viterius saw that the turrets were just one side of the ship. On the other were more banks of turrets and between those, running along the spine of the ship and out the front, was a gargantuan spinal cannon.

Viterius gaped at the size of the ships and the sheer firepower they carried. The ships were two miles long at least. Apparently the crew had similar thoughts.

"Spirits," gasps Viterius "Look at the size of them!" Impressive ships indeed, Viterius wondered about what kind of firepower they could truly bring. They had names painted on their broadsides: Mercy, Yellowjacket, Hydra.

The ships near Mercy, Yellowjacket and Hydra were similar in make but smaller. Rather than Dreadnaughts they seemed to be Battleships. With them were even smaller ships: Destroyers and cruisers. Then smaller, civilian looking ships.

Viterius shook his head. Soon, it wouldn't matter.

* * *

Captain Logan Rowland, Commander of Mercy, watched the science ship Athena interact with the void fork. That's all humanity could call it. Void Fork. Sounded like a meal to Logan. Something that you regret eating when you blow up the bathroom. He shrugged 'If that's what they're called that's what they're called.' Logan couldn't complain about his job, he was out in space and doing what he damn well loved: Exploring.

Mercy seemed to mirror his thoughts on the whole thing. She radiated a happiness to be out and about, exploring and expanding Humanities borders. Oh, she was very alive. Everyone could feel her around them.

She created a sense of peace in the crew. They knew she would do her best to keep them safe and alive as long as she lived.

She assisted the crew in their duties. Mechanical keyboards clicked and clacked and clattered as the strong fingers of the crew depressed the typewriter-esque keys of their computers. In truth, most of the computers were as mechanical as they were digital. Punch cards, microfiche ribbons, and switchboards took up most of the walls of Mercy's computer banks as the crew dutifully worked at them.

The crew was a mish-mash of Human and Mechanoid. The mechanoids, mechanical beings created by the Humans many, many years ago, worked and operated as any human would though with the added benefit of sheer mechanical efficiency.

Rather than the cold machines some may expect, the Mechanoids were more like mechanical humans than robots. It was a comfort for the crew.

Logan sat in a large chair, brown leather bolted to hardy oak with brass rivets. His uniform, a dark blue affair with white aiguilettes coming from the left shoulder and connecting to the brass buttons and decoration of his uniform. Like all Terran Navymen, he was armed, a double-action revolver on his right hip.

Logan looked out of the ward-reinforced, alchemically treated glass at the void. The glass was hard as diamond and wouldn't break unless subject to some horrid treatment.

"Captain?" Called Ensign Fischer. A mechanoid.

"Yes, Ensign?" Logan turned his head to Fischer.

Fischer looked back, not having to crane her mechanical neck any as Human CIC's were level with their crew. "Sir, there are ships out in the distance."

"Colors?" Logan wondered. It wasn't uncommon, in fact it was precisely the norm, for other nations to be out in space without telling others. Everyone wanted new colony worlds, after all.

"Sir, they don't even look human. The silhouettes don't look like anything any nation fields."

"Not human?" Logan frowned. There were others beyond Humanity and Mechanoids, but they went as far as Humanity did. They travelled with Humanity, so far none had found out how to do space travel.

The Gynoid shook her head "No, sir. Like I said, they're nothing I recognize. Completely different."

"First contact with an alien species." Logan laughed softly to himself "Good God it's startin' to look like Christmas." crew on the Bridge chuckled, Logan smiling slightly in return. "Try to hail them, let's see if we can get some dialogue." Every Alliance ship was armed with first contact probes. Packed to the tits with information on Human cultures, it was a prayer that anyone who they would meet would take them and learn.

Ensign Fischer nodded, sending an unmanned probe of data toward the encroaching ships.

* * *

Ensign Vixus spotted the probe quickly, despite its strange construction. A slow, ion engine propelled probe of square-ish construction. "Looks like a data probe, Captain Viterius." Vixus began "What should we do?"

Viterius waved dismissively .

"Burn it. We're going for a fight." a point defense laser lanced out and as ordered, burned the probe into nothing but ash.

* * *

"Captain, they've completely ignored the probe. They appear to be charging weapons and are bolstering what appear to be shields. They're on an attack vector." The Bridge became cold, silent, and Mercy herself seemed to groan in sorrow.

"Call Athena back. Get the scientists away from that great big fork and get them behind us! Now!" The order went out instantly, Athena pulling away from the fork with haste as her ion engines propelled her Zeppelin shaped body away from the fork and behind Mercy and the guardships.

"They're closing fast!'

Logan frowned deep, watching the predatory ships closing in. His frown became a scowl when a mass driver slug glanced off Mercy's hull and buried itself into the fork.

"First contact and we get attacked. Just wait a second and try to hail them." Fischer did so, but the call was ignored.

Another call, another dismissal.

"Call for battlestations!" Logan growled. They want a fight, they'll get one.

Ensign Fischer nodded and called the alarm.

"General quarters, all hands! Man your battle stations! This is not a drill!"

"Captain, do we fire the Polybolos?" Fischer asked again as another shot glanced off of the slanted armor of Mercy.

"Not yet. Just wait."

They closed in, the Dreadnaughts turned their massive bulk and stared down the alien ships coming toward them. All the while, the polybolos was loading and charging.

* * *

"Captain, the dreadnaughts have turned toward us and are charging weapons. They don't have shields up, but our weapons aren't doing much to hurt them either." Vixus looked back at his Captain for advice. "What do we do?"

"Keep firing. Tell everyone to open up." Viterius stared at the massive ships with a hard stare in his eye.

* * *

The alien ships opened fire en masse, shots glancing or being absorbed by the Adamantium plating of Mercy, Yellowjacket and Hydra.

"Load and fire the Polybolos!"

Three ship shaking shots erupted from the maw of the spinal cannon, tearing through the void as the huge shots darted their way across the void toward the Victorious, Inexorable and Indomitable.

"Give 'em hell." Logan growled as another shot, this time direct, shook the ship.

* * *

"Captain! Three huge shots just came from that gun! They're coming for the Victorious and our other ships!" Vixus reported tensely as his fingers danced across the holographic displays.

"I can see that! Shoot them down!" Point defense weapons and GARDIAN lasers lanced through the void attempting to hit the huge pods as they twisted and danced erratically to dodge and weave through the fire.

"Hit the damned things!" Viterius roared pounding a fist on the railing.

"They're moving too fast! Whatever hits do land are just absorbed! We're going to get hit!"

* * *

Inside one of the pods a hulking figure walked down the metal hallway, hefting a large HMG, fed by ammo chute connected to a backpack on the huge figure's person, his voice ringing through the speakers of his armor as men and women, human and mechanoid alike, strapped in for the coming connection. "Come on now, let's give 'em hell! We didn't start this war but by god we're gonna finish it!" He was answered by a resounding cheer of "Oorah!" as he racked back the slide on his weapon twice. The M2a1 Browning Heavy Machine Gun, firing a powerful .50 BMG shell, was the stuff of nightmares for anyone on the receiving end. Especially in close quarters combat.

The pod contained American Marines, proud and deadly warriors each and every one of them. They'd all gone through special kinds of hell to get where they stand and would put their training and experience to use against the aliens.

As far as they were concerned, they'd fought worse. So very much worse.

"3." Counted down the A.I.

"2."

"Get tactical, Marines!" The man, Jason, hollered as he hefted his Shorty and smacked it against his power armored chest. His armor, huge, making him stand atleast 7 or so feet tall and looking like a veritable tree trunk in thickness, the same standard olive drab color as the men and women around him, though his had a huge white star plastered on both pauldrons, which were angled sharply to deflect blows. His feet were splayed out wide to distribute weight, needed for a nearly two ton suit of power armor. From between the shoulders, the broad chest and turtle-like head armor was a visor of bulletproof armor. A HUD showed Jason the status of all his Marines. Excited.

That's how he liked them. Excited. Ready for combat.

His marines answered with hollars of their own, many of them wearing exosuits and wielding smaller .30 caliber machine guns, fed similarly by ammo chute and backpack, looked like smaller and lighter versions of himself.

"Impact."

The sound was horrendous, the shaking was bone-jarring and the adrenaline was one hell of a rush. The pod hit the alien ship with, if it weren't for their armor, would be an earshattering scream was the built in plasma saws ate through the armor of the ship, the tracks pulling it along into the ship. Once it hit open air, and sealed itself in a plug hissed as the pneumatic mechanism prepared to eject the door.

hisss

The sound after was incredible and the door was launched like a stone through a ballista taking an alien that was too foolish to live with it and smattering against the far wall leaving a hidden indent of blue pulp.

Jason roared through first, HMG roaring as it launched .50 BMG bullets forward. Each impact ripped apart alien armor and flesh, severing limbs and blasting holes into the aliens as they fired at him. The bullets didn't hurt him in his armor, but he felt himself having to fix his footing at the sudden, incredible impacts.

His marines launched out behind him. Many of them carried shields, taking up position with their commander, their 'Big Brudda' as some would call him in his armor, and created mobile cover for their allies behind them. The shields were held on a third arm extending out from their back, coming from the exosuit to free up their hands for their weapons.

The aliens knew they were being beaten at the gate and made a tactical, methodical retreat from the overwhelming firepower to a more advantageous position.

* * *

"Contact report!" Hollered one of the commanders "What's happening down there?"

"Spirits! We had to fall back, their firepower ripped right through us! We couldn't touch the big one, the others are carrying shields. We need more firepower!"

The commander hissed and nodded, ordering launchers and grenades to be brought to the new front.

* * *

Jason led the slow, plodding march in an outward semi-circle as the men with shields covered those without. Those without went to work executing those too far gone for any saving. One of them carried a strange sack with him and stored away the enemy weapons inside. The bag never seemed to fill, but the weapons disappeared.

Jason kept watch when he heard a 'clang, clang' and too late he looked to see two of his men taken by an extra-strength grenade. The concussion had ripped right through them, though the shrapnel had far less luck. It wasn't the shrapnel that killed them, it was their brains turned to mush by the grenade.

With a roar, Jason took up position where the grenade came from and fired down the hall at a wall, pinning his enemy there but it seemed they were brave and around the corner with a snapshot was a weapon Jason could only recognize as a rocket launcher.

The weapon roared down range at him and in a second, hit his armor with a wicked impact sending him back a few feet and taking a good two inches out of his armor. With a roar, Jason gave an order: "Bomb 'em!"

One of the Marines, furious as his friends for the sudden death of two of their comrades, picked a weapon the size of a potato from his hip. It was colored a wicked red.

He pressed a button, causing ethereal energy to escape from it then get sucked back in and he pulled the pin. With a toss, the grenade skated down the hall and erupted in a hellish blast of napalm. The screams were instant and the Marines launched down the hall.

Their armor fire retardant, they took no notice of the heat as they turned the corners and mowed down their enemy with all the fury they could muster. The .30 caliber bullets tore into their enemy and many dropped instantly as their brains went with the bullet out the other side of their cranium.

The enemy retreated again, losing another section of the ship.

The pods that went for the Inexorable and Indomitable reported to their motherships similar experiences and successes. In all, the Marines were nailing the enemy to the walls.

* * *

Viterius growled claws digging into the railing as he watches sections of the ship go red. Lost to the enemy.

"Heavy weapons are authorized, kill the damned aliens!"

* * *

Another section lost, the Turians got the call for heavy weapons and responded with the weapons called. When the marines came to them, the shields took the damage but were destroyed by the impact and the mechanical arms destroyed. While their armor could take the impact of some of the mass drivers, they couldn't take it all. More marines died, but they did so fighting as they knew they damn well should.

Jason's weapon was one of the deciders of the fight, the bark of the huge weapon caused fear in the enemy and behind him marched the marines as they either fired upon the enemy or took care of their dead and dying.

Another rocket took another depth of Jason's armor and his fury grew until it became tempered and tranquil. Jason transcended roaring fury, he was far beyond it at that point.

Now his steps were methodical, slow, plodding, and his finger never left the lever as long as aliens were in his sight.

"Hope is a moment now long past, the shadow of death is the one I cast!" Jason hollered to the aliens alive and dead, the former trying to keep hidden from the massive weapon and the latter turned to a disgusting slush.

* * *

The impacts just kept coming and the footsteps only got louder as the monster closed in. Damn it, damn it! This isn't how it was supposed to go!

The soldier grit his teeth and tried to squeeze into the corner tighter as his allies similarly tried to hide from the beast. Their launcher died. They surely would too.

The Turian opened his eyes and looked up as if expecting an answer for the carnage there.

There wasn't an answer.

But the shadow did show the Turian a whole new reason to be afraid.

At least, for the next second.

* * *

Blood and screams erupted from one corner while another was shocked silent at the sight of one of their friends being swallowed by the cieling. The shock sent one of the scared Turians out of the corridor and promptly was splattered against the wall from the massive bullets that hit him.

* * *

"Surrender! We surrender!" one of the surviving Turians screamed out to the beast. While his friends were shocked, they made no attempt to stop him in his surrender.

The shots stopped and their ears rung as the footsteps stopped, too.

"Come out with your hands up." the voice was level, but hid a fury only matched by the Gods.

The Turians slowly stepped into the slush that was their allies, fighting the urge to vomit as they stared down a dozen barrels.

For a bit, Jason considered firing on them anyway.

But that wasn't the way of the Alliance. Surrender was to be taken and that's what it was.

Jason's hands shook as he stepped closer with his Marines and the Turians had to fight the urge to step back.

"On your knees." Jason ordered. "Right where you are." That is, in the gore.

The Turians tried to step out, but the barrels rose in their direction again with a warning shot "Where you are!" Jason roared, coming down from his tranquil fury.

The Turians slowly got to their knees.

In the remains of their friends.

"Bind them, take them back to the pod. We'll stay guard here."

* * *

Viterius couldn't believe what he was seeing. He just saw Turians surrender. The shame was palpable for Viterius, who could feel bile in his mouth as the aliens practically dragged the soldiers through the gore and down the hall to their sure deaths.

Viterius shook his head.

"All hands on bridge, set the charges. We're scuttling the ship. If we can't have it, neither can they." The crew were shocked but followed orders.

Vixus glanced at others on the bridge and silently, they all agreed. There was a chance.

They set to preparing the charges in the bridge armory all around the room. Those that weren't in on the plan set the charges for real. Under the guise of 'double checking', the traitors disabled the charges.

When it was all said and done, the crew gave the all clear. For many, it was to be the day of death.

For others, a chance at salvation.

* * *

Jason was nearing on the bridge with the remainders of his men and when at the main door, he ordered a charge to be placed on the door.

One of the marines did as he ordered, the charge had an LED on it that counted down:

"1. 2. 3. Goodbye!" Jason chuckled at the humor and when the blast opened the door he charged in. No one rose a weapon and Viterius stood proud but defeated at the center of the room with his hands behind his back.

"All those who wish to surrender, on your knees." Jason ordered.

Viterius snorted, expecting that the order would fall on deaf ears. Instead, the order was followed by a majority of the crew who dropped to their knees and locked hands behind their heads.

Viterius' face paled and those that stood were executed by Jason's Marines. Viterius hissed and with venom on his tongue cursed the traitors and the aliens as he depressed the button.

Nothing happened.

Again, and again. Nothing happened.

Jason retrieved one of the knives from his marines and stalked up to the once captain as he repeatedly pressed the button as though it would help.

"For the Alliance!" Jason roared as he grabbed Viterius by the head and with one strong blow severed Viterius' head from his shoulders.

"Get these prisoners to the pod. It's high time we head back to Mercy."

* * *

The outside battle was no better for the Turians than inside. While the Inexorable had managed to retreat for help, the Indomitable had been boarded successfully and similarly sabotaged by traitors. The other, smaller ships, were smashed early in teh fight.

When the report had been sent that the two bigger ships were captured and POWS were had, the celebration was half hearted. First contact with a new species had openened with a fight.

Logan knew it could only get worse.


	2. Invasion: Shanxi

Logan walked down the hallway of the brig of Mercy. She radiated a kind of mellow anger after the conflict with the aliens. The _Inexorable_ escaped but the others had either been boarded or wiped out. Boarded ships were under deconstruction on the surface of Shanxi under command of General Abbot, veteran of the US Army and commander of Shanxi's American colonial forces.

The brig was dark and cold, with cells of adamantium bars near impenetrable. Guards stood watch at all of the cells on both sides, keeping an eye on eachother's wellbeing as well as the prisoners.

Logan neared the first cell holding aliens and stood before it as the group of silent, avian aliens stared at him.

For a time, they simply stared at one another. The heat from Logan's glare was something that could be felt by the aliens but they refused to retreat from the human captain and returned the glare with half-hearted glares of their own.

Logan merely stood. Stared. Then he sighed and shook his head "This wasn't how we wanted it, you know." Logan's face fell into a sorrowful frown "We hoped, for once, we could meet someone who didn't want to attack us. Maybe, just maybe, we could have a peaceful resolution." The sorrow in his voice was evident and the guards felt his pain.

The turians couldn't understand him, but they understood his tone. It was, after all, an emotion they shared. One of the turians becomes brave and steps forward causing Logan's head to snap upward at the movement.

The turian raises his hands placatingly, taking a slower step forward.

Logan stays where he stands, brows knitting together and glare returning on the one turian in particular. If looks could kill, he'd of been ash.

"We didn't want this, you know." The turians language is strange, but somehow Logan understands the emotion of it. "That's why we defected. Anything's better than living a lie. Whatever you do, at least know that we tried."

Logan looked the alien in the eyes who returned the look and somehow, they got it. Logan tensed his jaw and turned to one of the guards "Get a translator working now. I want to communicate with these lot." The guard nodded.

"Sir, yes, sir. Do you want me to go to RND and tell them to double-time it, sir?"

"Yes, now." The soldier saluted then hauled assholes and elbows to the RND department and left the rest to their post.

Logan turned back to the turians and kept their stare for a time. "You're to stay with us. Others will be sent down to Shanxi. When the translator is ready, you're going to tell us _everything_. Do you understand that?" Logan used his hands to mimic what he said.

A finger pointed at the turians then was used with the rest of the hand to mimic a talking mouth then Logan pointed to himself. He did it again, but before pointing at himself he made a motion like creating an orb from the top down. _Everything._

The head turian nodded, he seemed to get it.

Logan nodded and walked away. He knew something was coming soon.

* * *

The turian sat down on the cold floor and sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "What did he say?" asked one of the others, still shocked at their surprisingly kind treatment compared to what they could expect from others.

" _Everything._ " the turian understood that part well enough "We're going to tell him _everything._ I think they're working on translators." The Turian stared at the floor, seeing one of the guards staring at them from outside the cell "I think it's in our best interest to do so, something tells me they can get it from us in other ways if they want it."

One of the turians sent a surprisingly scared look at the guard. When the guard saw it, he chuckled darkly. He knew exactly what that look was. He mimiced a talking mouth with his hand, then cut the air diagonal to signal 'Or' and then dragged his thumb across his throat.

 _Talk or die._

"I think you're right." the turian stared at the guard for a while more, who went back to his rigid stance but they could almost feel the dark joy radiating from him.

He enjoyed the torment. It seemed that he promised more if the turians didn't cooperate.

* * *

"Patch me in to General Abbot." Logan ordered on screen in his personal quarters to the comm. operator on Shanxi's surface, receiving a nod and soon came the mechanical face of General Abbot. The mechanoid grinned at the Captain.

"What's this about, Logan? Need some decompression?" Logan snorted at the General and shook his head. Abbot's face soon fell and he leaned into the screen "I know what this is about. I know about the fight. You're alive so I assume all's well."

"Not as well as you think, Abbot." Logan sighed "One of them escaped. If they're anything like us, they're going to be coming for us soon. We have prisoners, we're working on translator technology."

"What was their strength like?"

"Decent, but couldn't do much against the adamantium plating. But this I think was a scout group, not a battle group. I think they're gonna come here with all they've got." Logan felt exasperated at the attack they recently suffered. From a first contact, no less.

"We'll get ready and I'll let the other generals on land here know," That meant other nations' generals. While terrans weren't obligated to help one another, it did go a long way. "I know they won't be happy, but they'll be ready."

"What'll you do?"

"I'll get the militia ready. We don't know exactly what the enemy will be like, but they'll mobilize and we'll make sure we're as ready as we can be." Indeed, the clacking of keys meant that Abbot was already in the process of disseminating the order amongst his men "I'll make sure that our ground forces hurt 'em bad. But Logan, there's a big fucking problem down here." Abbot's mechanical, glowing irises dimmed in anger and Logan found himself in a deep frown.

"Oh God, what now?" The first contact fuck up, now whatever was happening on Shanxi.

"Vampires have swarmed and made nests out of abandoned caverns, mines, and towns in Chinese and our own townships, Logan. Their numbers, their persistence, means there's a Queen somewhere here on Shanxi. There's also the fact that we need to bolster our borders between this realm and The Others' own. If they land, Logan, we'll be dealing with a war on three fronts: Vampires, Others, and Aliens." Abbot disabled the mechanisms of his face so no emotion would show, but his eyes said it all.

Logan held his face in his hands, sighing.

"Fuck's sake! What more? Just lay it all on me."

"Well, I stubbed my toe earlier." Abbot jokes, grinning at the exasperated Captain whose glare could melt adamantium hull.

"I fucking hate you sometimes." Logan chuckles through his glare, the general laughing.

"We'll get married after this don't you worry, then you'll put up with me forever!" Logan lets out a full belly laugh at that,wiping a tear from his eye. His fury was mitigated, but not forgotten, and he smiled at the Mechanoid

"You'd love that I'm sure."

"Lemme love you, fucker!" Abbot chuckles and shakes his head "Get some sleep, kid. Work on whatever it is ya work on and I'll get Shanxi prepared. Got a right dicking for the aliens if and when they come back."

"Thanks Abbot." Logan smiles at the Mechanoid who waves his hand dismissively with a 'Bah' noise. "Talk to you later, old man." Abbot nodded as the connection was cut.

After telling his crew to continue on and wake him if there was an emergency, Logan got some well needed sleep.

* * *

When the connection was cut, Abbot stood from his chair and exited the massive quikset Ziggurat that was his base of operations. The base was smothered in weapons and men, sapient machines and inhabited by spirits and shielded by wards. It acted as a military base, a factory, a shelter for civilians, and long-term storage shelter for provisions among other things.

The large, steel-constructed diesel vehicles rumbled and roared as they went about their duties ferrying supplies to-and-fro from inside and outside the base. Furniculars carried crates to their respective levels on the ziggurat and soldiers were doing their duties dressed in olive drab uniforms.

When they caught sight of their general, everyone stopped what they were doing and saluted.

"At ease! Go about your businesss. I need runners. Fastest men, front and center!" A number of men bolted their way to their general's presence and stood at attention for his scrutiny.

"You men are going to be carrying important messages. We're going to be under attack possibly within the week. Find the leaders of the Militia and inform them of this fact. Dig in, prepare emplacements, and get their armor ready because we're gonna need them ready!"

One of the runners saluted with a "Sir!" and ran off, speedy as he could.

"Find a radio and warn the nearby foreign countries of the news, we need them ready as well!" Another runner dispatched.

"General battle readiness is to be escalated. We're at war soon, gentlemen, no fucking around! Go, tell everyone!" Soon the message was spreading like napalm in a dry-as-bone field and the base was buzzing like an angered hive of bees and soon the message was loud and clear:

 _ **WAR.**_

* * *

While word was being sent back to Earth that war was to be had, it would take time for the Alliance ships to arrive at their destination. While the courier ships were gone the Turians came back in force with their predatory ships firing as soon as they blinked into system.

The shots hurt the non-dreadnought ships the most, but even they were taking the hits with a snort and fired back causing gouts of plasma to erupt from the massive coilguns the Terran ships sported. Each shot hurt the Turian ships a considerable amount more, but they were tough and soldiered on through the fire. Their rate of fire was considerably higher than the human ships and it showed.

For every volley the humans laid out for the turians, the aliens returned twice. In the Terran ships were men in power armor of industrial make with increased hydraulic power hefting massive, multi-ton shells into the capital guns. The foreman of the loaders roared "Come on! Come on, men! Send 'em down!" Each shell loaded was then sent into the barrel by a large hydraulic mechanism that was soon rewarded with a crack like a roll of thunder in ones head and the mechanism slid back awaiting another shell only to be closed mere seconds later.

"Come on!" The foreman hollered, the men answered with roars of their own as thunder cracks met their efforts and the ships roared in their minds as well: "We can do it!" feminine, matronly voices rung out inside their skulls making them redouble their efforts.

Their ships were talking to them and damn it, they'd make sure they met the call!

* * *

In one of the new ships that had dragged itself from the surface, her belly was full of craft just itching to get in on the fight. Their pilots loaded themselves into the craft and felt them almost hug their forms to the seats as the hatches closed and hissed pressurizing against the void soon to come.

"Hog 1 this is Hog 2, shall we dance?" One of the pilots joked to the leader of the fighter wing causing him to smile when the order came: Fight!

The craft blazed out of their mothership and formed into a flying V as Hog 1 answered "Let's do it Hogs! Gore 'em!" The pilots, and indeed the craft, answered with low and high bellows as they blazed toward the Turian lines. While they flew, streaks of purple light blazed past them.

Hog 1, Isaac, smiled. "Let's nail 'em girl," Isaac patted his craft (Screamer) and felt her in his head.

 _Whenever you're ready_

Turian craft raced towards them, too late noticing the projectiles coming at them. Many missiles blew up taking the craft with them while others blazed on toward the enemy ships.

When the turian craft blew up they took their dessicated pilots with them sending sputtering debris toward Shanxi's surface to burn up in atmosphere or land as barely salvagable husks.

Isaac could feel Screamer in his head when he wore his neurohelmet, could feel where her 'eyes' were pointed, and found himself grinning with joy when she was focused intently on the enemy.

"Nail 'em Hogs!" Isaac sent a missile forward as did the rest of the Hogs. With the rest of the missiles sent by the Terrans not all of them could be intercepted. But the one that counted made it and like a virus it spread its payload into the Turian computers with an avalanche of digital snow and a special audio byte.

* * *

"What the HELL is THAT?" demanded one of the Turian captains as music suddenly roared through the intercomm fleet wide, distressing communications and annoying the skin out of the Turians' ear canals.

"I don't know! It came with that missile the aliens sent after us!"

"Turn it off!"

"I can't!"

* * *

Ride of the Valkyries, like the bugle repitoire, had become famous amongst the airforce, army, and both arms of the Alliance Navy; the former mostly popular with American crews but still.

"Let's hope they enjoy the last music they'll be hearin'!" Hollered Hog 3 over the comm. to Isaac's amusement. His craft, Screamer, seemed amused by the fellow pilot's antics as well. _'Let's show these aliens how it's done, girl.'_ Isaac thought, softly palming the dash of his craft and felt a warm feeling return after the contact.

* * *

The Turian and Human lines met, Hogs quickly tearing into the Turian fighters, the alien craft looking like flying talons with the pilot in the forefront while the Human craft have the pilot seated farther back, more in cover. The face of Screamer and the other craft, like screaming demons, turned on their sides to avoid impacting the Turian craft (some of which were spinning out of control from the machine gun fire; blue blood splattered over the glass after blue entrails were forcibly vented out into the vacuum) and Isaac, with a quick course correction and small thrust of the engine, managed to bank in space as the Hogs followed suit and now pursued the Turian craft like hounds for blood or a boar for truffles.

* * *

Mercy was at the forefront again, huge gun turrets tearing into the airless void with eruptions of plasma as her guns let loose on the Turian fleet. There were many of the predatory ships, colored bright red and white; blazing bright in the blackness of space, while the ships like the USS Mercy, HMS Paladin, and USS Yellowjacket were colored a light blue-grey; the standard color since the second world war. Yellowjacket, however, had a yellow and black checkerboard shape over her nose, her Polybolos was currently hidden inside her hull and the hull was closed over it in a seamless compartment making the Dreadnaught seem to not have the giant man cannon.

Mercy's crew were hard at work as androids and gynoids processed all the information blisteringly quick and passed it along to the proper places, pneumatic tubes containing canisters of paper work hissing about the ship as her cannons continued to roar on the port and starboard sides, top and bottom. The mass driver slugs from the Turian ships either glanced off Mercy's hull or those that did hit didn't do much against the Adamantium that made up the shell of Mercy's armor.

The Turian ships, though weaker, were overwhelming the Human fleet. Smaller ships breaking off from the distracting fleet to head for Shanxi below. Despite their attempts, the Human fleet couldn't divert their attention from the enemy fleet as more ships jumped in and funneled to the planet below.

Mercy was none to happy and the crew could feel it as she forced her machinery and guns to fire faster and pump more power into their operations, as much as they could handle safely, and the crew raced to keep up with her.

While the Turians raced for the surface they were under attack. AAA batteries opened fire on the turian craft sending some spiraling to the ground to uncertain fates while others managed to survive. Some still were struck in such a way that few survived the inital strike let alone subsequent strikes and finally planetfall sending fires miles high into the sky.

Abbot grinned. Othe generals were aware of the aliens and had made preparations.

The American militia was ready and they'd make certain that any alien that landed on Shanxi would regret their decision.

Abbot himself had prepared as well.

Most cities were home to miles upon miles of newly formed trenchwork and the Ziggurat itself was a true fortress against attack.

 _'Cry havok and let slip the dogs of war'_ , thought Abbot. _'Let's give 'em a good hammering.'_


	3. Eruption

Shanxi wasn't settled very long ago, so few could with any speed call themselves a 'native' of the colony as of yet. But Lukas had been stationed on planet so damn long that he _might as well_ of been. Granted, the planet kept him busy. A Vampiric population had spawned on planet, quickly creating a hive and becoming more and more of a threat with each passing week.

Despite the danger, the damned creatures are _elusive_ if nothing else.

But with _Mercy_ above, he knew they'd have the damnable creatures gone soon.

Go figure that Aliens would invade.

"Why, with all sincere curiosity, Amir," The man in question turned with a raised brow on his dark skin "Why in the snowball lovin' fuck do we have to be invaded as we're about to find and root out the Vampires? Why now?"

Amir shrugged "Someone hates us somewhere?" His accented voice brought a smile to Lukas' face.

Lukas shook his head "Atleast get to know us first so we have a chance to give 'em a reason!"

Amir laughed and smacked his friend's armored shoulder "Not our luck I'm afraid." Lukas sighed and like his comrades all around him as they milled about their barracks, checked, for the third time, the magazine of his weapon.

He carried a BAR M4a2, an evolution (as many weapons of the modern Alliance armament was) on the BAR 1918 a legendary weapon from the first and second world wars. The M4a2, firing a .308 bullet and slightly shorter than its parent weapon, was still _heavier_ when weighed down with ammo weighing 25 pounds as opposed to the 1918s 19 pounds.

This weight comes from the drum magazine the M4a2 carried with it holding _50_ rounds as opposed to the ancestral 20.

The power of the weapon, weight, and general accuracy of it made it the equivalent of 'Everyday Carry' among the exosuited corps. When outfitted with enhanced strength, who wouldn't?

Lukas carried a sack on his right hip. A long metal case sheathed in natural leather lashed to his hip, cold to the touch, held three replacement barrels in cryogel for when his own inevitabley overheats from the stress of combat.

"Evidently." Lukas and Amir both stood at attention when a man with a heavily scarred face, much of it healed by surgery but not enough by any stretch to make the grievous wounds any less horrifying.

Lieutenant Ashford looked among his soldiers with a smile on his destroyed face. "Damn look at you sorry sacks o' shit. Who pissed in your corn flakes this morning?" The soldiers answered with a grumble and various chuckles "Come on now, I asked you a damned question!"

The soldiers answered with a resounding "Aliens, sir!"

Ashford snorted "Aliens? Come on!" Ashford clapped his hands "Are Aliens really worse than The Omen?"

The soldiers answered "No, sir."

"No? Good! Then this should be easy for us, hm? Get into positions. Snipers, to your nests. Make yourselves useful!" The Mechanoids in question, with eyes differed from normal by having multiple oculi in one unit for different zooms, saluted as they held their .308 rifles at their sides, black shawls spread over their shoulders and heads.

"Do we have barriers set up?"

"Yes, Lieutenant," Began a Gynoid "We have the Barriers set up, mines in the alleyways, and we have charges rigged and set to your command center's word. All you need do is specify the sector and press the button."

"Good."

They went on with the checklist, those ticked off the list went about their duty. Snipers found their nests, Gunners found their avenues on the high and low concrete and brick buildings reinforced by barriers of metal or stacked up stone and concrete blocks. Sandbags were stacked up too, where they could be found, and the town which was relatively large but certainly no grand metropolis was looking like one hell of a base from where the Garrison was standing.

Underground, a shelter was made for the civilians of the town. Families huddled together, guards in power armor standing ready should the worst happen and the enemy break through the guard. Grim, ready, armed with a weapon differing from the standard Shorty, they wielded automatic, belt-fed shotguns to fill the corridor they guard with buckshot. Anything coming down range would not survive and _they'd make sure of it_.

Above, the defenders were ready as the Enemy began walking in, spreading out and entering tactical mode as they knew, like a sixth sense, that _something_ wasn't right.

* * *

Theadra wasn't happy with the new war. Since the _Victorious_ had been captured, the captain killed and a number of the crew unaccounted for, other ships with her destroyed or captured, Theadra knew this could go one of two ways: Either the Hierarchy triumphs again and she be forced to break down the insurgency from the recently taken territory, or the unlikely happen and the war go in the favor of the aliens.

Theadra was one of a surprising amount not just in her legion, but in _multiple_ legions, that _despised_ her role in the Hierarchy. Everyone, from 15 to 30, was a conscript. Wether it be the military or some other role, it was chosen and that's what you stuck with. Theadra merely had the _pleasure_ of being in the Military.

She had to admit, she's not a good Turian. She dislikes her commanders, the Hierarchy, the wars they get into. Doesn't think a race who, most likely, has no _idea_ about Council law let alone the history behind activating mass relays, should be warred upon and in the case of a Turian victory (likely) made into a client race and kept relegated to a certain level of advancement with orbital bombardment being a deterrent from any resistance should the garrison fail until they were firmly under the rule of the Hierarchy.

But she'd already heard reports of numerous casualties, wounded carted away by human vehicles running on metal tracks, stiff resistance and brutal guerilla warfare and trench lines being the norm in some places.

Theadra almost felt guilty to feel a sort of joy to it.

Almost.

After all, Theadra's not a good Turian.

She turned, by order, down the left side of the entrance. The town, built of stone, red bricks, and concrete where wood wasn't used in abundance, many buildings bordered with white and painted words in the alien language she couldn't understand. "Berdicci's Biodiesel!" Was painted on the side of a red brick building, smooth blacktop leading up to the building's opening with two metal shutter-like doors pulled down over the entrance. Four bright red and white pumps, with plastic flip-card numbers and decimals inside of glass casings were shown.

Connected was a long rubber tube to each of them, with a handle and dispenser with a long, thin metal funnel hooked into the machine.

Theadra didn't understand what the building was for, she could understand it was some form of garage, but she couldn't tell what it was would be dispensed. Some form of fuel, maybe.

Theadra and a few others continued.

Strange creatures.

Along the way, one of her unit stopped and looked at a glass window that had, in bright, bold red letters painted on, "GET FUCKED, BIRDS" a sign emblazoned all across the great, clear surface. Inside seemed to be toys and other souvenirs, a gift shop or place for other goods.

It was too late that the Turian noticed the nearly silent beep and the screams of his team, mercifully farther and roughly out of the blast zone, never met his ears.

The glass exploded outward, impaling the Turian with shards of sharp, untempered glass while the concussion turned his brain and eyes into soup. He fell back, slightly charred, smashed and splintered glass embedded into his skin, and what remained of his brain leaking from his earholes while his eyes made neat puddles in his eye sockets. An expression of utter terror affixed to his dead face.

One never to fade.

That's when more explosions erupted, along with screams of other Turians as the town _opened up_ with the reports of numerous weapons releasing gunpowder propelled death, coated with copper and filled with lead.

So began the long day of Guerilla Warfare.

And Theadra cursed the Hierarchy and what it was worth.


	4. The world's the war

The sudden explosion rocked Theadra and her squad, her mandibles spread up and wide in surprise. There was no saving him, long dead that he is, but the image would be burned into her mind forever. "Get moving!" Theadra's commander shouted out as he motioned for them to follow him down an alleyway, a shortcut to the main area of the town.

His body was tossed up and away from the buildings, spraying the gas station and adjacent building with blue blood and gore. What remained of his body was riddled with fragmentation and Theadra realized to her horror it was no mere fragmentation that was common in grenades. No, it was nails, shards of glass, bottle caps, and washers that were embedded in her Commander's body, his face torn off by the explosion and fragmentation.

Theadra, at a loss for words, looked at her team mates for guidance.

They were just as lost as she was.

Breaking from their terrified reverie, they ran back down the street to rejoin the main force and slammed into cover when huge gouges were tore into the street by some kind of heavy machine gun. "Damn it all to hell!" One of them, Tiberius, snarled as he tried to get a sight on where the machine gun was firing from. His helmeted head would _maybe_ protect from a glancing shot, but from the size of the bullets that smacked the ground and bounced off from the angle, he knew a direct shot would only spell his doom.

Tiberius looked around the part of town his legion inhabited, hunkered down in cover and with the cover of buildings to protect them for as long as the enemy didn't employ explosives, already the fight was likely to shape up and be a hard one. Casualties already felt from booby traps, Tiberius had to think quick.

He spied down an alleyway to his left, eyes quickly finding the irregular mounds if he looked hard enough, a fire escape leading upwards. If he was thinking right, the buildings would be somewhat connected.

He nodded and, patting the man to his right to get his attention, motioned toward the fire escape "Get a few men and get up there! Watch the floors, there's mines! They're mounds, irregular and easy to pick out if you use your omni-light." The man nodded and, rallying a few soldiers, ducked while running to the alley. Activating the orange holographic tool on his left arm, the soldier could see the mounds, and mines beneath, easy.

The path shown for them, the other Turians that went with quickly scaled the fire escape and disappeared into the buildings with the squad leader following last.

His men in the buildings, looking for a way to flank the machine gunner, Tiberius got the idea to do so the opposite side.

With the move repeated, more of his men disappeared into the buildings.

His unit, the vanguard of the Legion, _had_ to try and get the enemy busy until the rest showed up. Normally, he'd call an orbital strike on the machine gun emplacement. With the navy being tied up fighting the Human navy above, that simply was not an option.

Such the pity.

* * *

Theadra travelled through the homes, food abandoned on plates and glasses still filled with water, glass bottles with red or blue paper wraps on them in the human language, some filled in varying levels of quantity with a brown, carbonated liquid.

She shrugged, trying to shake the feeling that she and her squad were being watched.

Through the various rooms, radios still on in some as they played their music and called for the citizenry to hide in their shelters and for militias to assist the military in defense of the planet.

Theadra wished she could understand what the hell it was saying.

The machine gunner outside was laying down relentless fire, bursts of ammo sent at the barricades and keeping the Turian vanguard outside in cover. Across the street, in another block of buildings, a similar team was trying to get a bead on the machine gunner.

In truth, Theadra was taking her sweet time and she knew the Turians with her including the one in command were doing the same thing. Making a half-hearted attempt at doing their job, the Turians peeked out of windows to find the Machine Gunner's emplacement.

"There he is." Notified one of them "That's..a big damn gun." Theadra and a few others peeked as well and, indeed, the gun was rather big.

It was guarded by a grey colored steel chicken shield, barrel flaring with fire with every burst and pop of gunfire. The shield was decorated with chalk drawings, crude and not completely accurate caricatures of Turian heads with Xs for eyes and a tongue stuck out from their mouths with "Birds Clipped:" yet to be filled in.

Soldier mode kicking in, Theadra and her squad waited for the man manning the turret to turn just enough that they could get a shot. Whoever made the shield, which looked recently put together and the fresh marks of a welds could be seen still bright against the darker color it split apart. The chicken shield had thick rivets around the border, samwiching a rubber pad and a plate of bulletproof glass between it and another plate of steel. The shield and rubber pad continued down, Theadra assumed, to the man's feet and curved slightly around to guard his sides somewhat.

When he turned, popping the head of an attempted runner, the angle was not enough to protect him.

Theadra took aim, saying a silent apology, as she noticed the man wearing overalls and a white shirt, the overalls stained in grease. A worker, she deduced, and felt sadness.

Then she fired.


	5. C'est la guerre

His head exploded. A tiny entry hole on the left side, followed by an eruption of bone fragments and brain matter out the right. The gun's mechanics squealed as his body, rigid from the contact, still gripped the handles and the gun was turned upward to the sky at a sharp angle quickly. For just a moment the gun continued firing until finally his nerves seemed to shoot out the hole his brains escaped from a second ago and the gun stopped.

For a few moments, nothing was heard except for the echo of the bullets that screamed towards the ground in the distance. The sound of their firing ringing off of the buildings' close proximity.

Then there was nothing.

Slowly, carefully, the Turian vanguard advanced finally. The dead left where they were to be retrieved later. For now, the town needed taking and tehy needed to cover ground.

Theadra pushed her sorrows aside for now. These aliens would kill her as quickly as she had them. There's no room for sorrow when a bullet is likely to whizz over your head.

Her teammate patted her shoulder in silent understanding, the sentries watching over the Vanguard's response.

 _Whizz._

* * *

One of three marksmen, Sasha, watched over the Turian approach with a pit growing in her mechancial heart. She heard the gunshots. Then the squeal. Then the slump. Sasha closed her eyes, the machinery that kept her physical body alive whirred with what she felt. Mechanoids didn't age like humans. Many mechanoids were _original_ mechanoids, ancestors, that were there when Humanity had it's collective "Oh shit" moment when they learned Androids and Gynoids were sentient.

Humanity, in varying degrees of reeling from realization, were apprehensive around their robotic friends for a time. But the mechanoids could wait, not like they could grow old.

Now, Humanity and Mechanoids, the two bodies of the Alliance, were fast friends and in some cases more. It never ceased to make Sasha, an ancestor, sad when she learned of a human's death.

Eyes open now, her multi-sight oculus in her right eye focused down the half U shaped funnel that acted as her focal point, interrupted by a small metal nub at the end just above the opening of the barrel, while her left eye simply shut off (shown by her closing her eye) and waited for the Turians to walk out.

Then she noticed the Turians in the building.

Adjusting her angle, Sasha took the shot.

* * *

Her teammates head exploded behind her, the bullet whizzed _right_ by her ear, the snap caused her to fall over and grip her ringing ear.

A little tinnitus never hurt anybody, but seeing her team mate's head blown wide open made Theadra's eyes blow open.

She'd heard the obvious reports of Turian casualties, such is the nature of war, and she'd had friends die in her arms before, nearly been there herself. But this, somehow, was different. Maybe it's how close she, herself, came to dying. She didn't know. What she knew is: "We have to get out of here." Theadra pushed herself against the wall, crawling backward as her ear rang incessantly.

Her team had the same idea, pushing past the growing pool of blood and twitching body of their friend as they followed Theadra out.

The Vanguard, tired of being jerked around, took stock of their munitions and found themselves joyous when a missile launcher was retrieved.

"Why didn't we use that on the machine gun?" Asked an incredulous Turian.

"There's a big difference between a machine gun and a rifle!" Answered another.

"Varren shit and you know it," The Turian huffed but hoisted the launcher on his shoulder and after a quick moment of pumping himself up, leaned out and fired the missile at the same time a bullet tore his spirit from his body.

* * *

Sasha watched the missile blazing her way and sighed, even with her enhanced reflexes and strength over humans and almost assuredly Turians, she wouldn't be able to jump this missile without damage.

Watching it in vertiable slow motion, she whispered "C'est la guerra" before the top of the church tower she made her nest was blown apart.

* * *

Lukas and his unit snarled as they waited for Ashford to give them the order to erupt on the Turian Vanguard. The town was made to look empty, minus Sasha and the Gunner whom he was certain were _very_ dead now, so the Turians would be lulled into a false sense of security.

They were _in the town_ now.

 _'Let us attack damn it!'_

The whistle blew.


	6. On two fronts

Somehow, the humans were _with_ the squad when the shrill whistle screamed. They erupted from piles of clothes, closets, from the floor. One of them, an android, grabbed Theadra up with death in his mechanical eyes and tossed her through the window and into the carnage below. Her squad were either tossed out with her, or were massacred inside. She couldn't tell, after all the fall had dazed her something awful and she landed on dead comrades.

What she couldn't see, was inside the building she was just at, Androids tore into the terrified Turians with combat knives and sheer mechanical strength, tossing pieces of them out of the window and staining Theadras face with blue blood and bits of exoskeleton while around her, her comrades were either falling to the alien assault or were putting up a decent fight but the aliens were armed with primitive weapons. Clubs, make-shift maces, and knives made of bent nails (whatever they could get their hands on) were used on the Turian soldiers while the natural dexterity and claws of the Turians fought back.

Despite her hate for the Hierarchy and the giant varren it frequently rode in on, she couldn't stop a gasp and expression of horror as dead or dying eyes stared back up at her.

Her adrenaline pumping, she stood up and grabbed for whatever weapon she could and began firing into the human lines.

It was a shotgun.

In close quarters, the heavy weapon _atleast_ dibilitated the humans if it didn't kill them. The power of the weapon knocked them down when struck, the pellets dissolving against their armor but the kinetic energy sending some flying back a couple feet. She was proud of those strikes, because whenever she was about to take a strike, she would fire into the Human armor and send more flying, the _ch-chck_ of her slide was a sound she couldn't help but grin at.

Many did die, however, the kinetic energy sending their guts rocketing out of their back and exploding out, creating a squishy fountain from the cracks in their armor and space betwixt the ceramic and leather backing.

Again, again, and again, she fired. Blood both blue and red stained her armor, her claws, and her face, and while she took strikes she couldn't feel them with the adrenaline corusing through her veins!

Mechanoid and Human, the shotgun was fired at a steady pace while the human gunfire punished her ringing ears.

She was shot a few times, she could feel the burning, but she never stopped. Not until, atleast, a human had used some form of flanged iron mace to whack the gun from her hand and club her across the chest. Her armor absorbed most of the impact, but the heavy weapon knocked the wind out of her before she was whacked again in the stomach and sent doubled over.

She looked up at the human that hit her, seeing a dark face glaring down at her as he reared back to bring the mace down on her head. His eyes promised death and he was stained with blue blood. Looking closer, Theadra could see pieces of exoskeleton and Turian flesh hanging on the sharp edges of the mace.

That's when she heard a resounding, everywhere-and-nowhere _**"STOP!"**_ shock the man stupid and look up and around as if to find where it came from. Whatever it was shocked the entire field. Turian, Human and Mechanoid alike turned, some in mid-melee, trying to find the source of the voice.

They found none.

Theadra thanked the spirits for the intervention, hissing when the bullet wounds reminded her they existed. The dark skinned man, once intent on killing her, looked down at her with an expression that told her clear and true: He was conflicted. But, listening to the voice, he sheathed his mace and looked up, whistling and waving at someone, before looking down at her again and mouthing something to her she couldn't understand.

* * *

"Good luck." Lukas whispered down at her as he stepped over her and onto a dead body, joining his unit in collecting the Human and Mechanoid dead. Amongst them was Amir, throat bisected by sharp Turian claws that went all the way to his spine. His eyes were becoming glossy, blood still leaking from his exposed veins.

Lukas mourned his friend, kneeling down as tears filled his eyes and cradled the man's head trying to bring some semblance of normalcy to the corpse that was Amir. The eyes, dead and gone, were angled at just the angle to focus on Lukas' mournful self.

Sergeant Jesse was the man he called over, the giant of a man wearing slightly lighter armor than the rest despite his size, focusing instead on his supplies.

He leaned down, dwarfing the Turian woman he was ordered to get and picked her up gently.

The woman hissed and clawed his large, unarmored bicep with unguarded nails to which he seemed to have no reaction to. She lolled her head to the left, eyes widening as she gazed down the way. Hissing something in her language, one he didn't understand yet, almost scared he shrugged it off as delirium or shell-shock. He'd seen it before, would for as long as he was a medic.

"Don't worry," Jesse said looking down at the woman through his mask and visor, a smile unseen, as the woman looked up at him with eyes wide "I'l get ya fixed up." she let out a noise _anyone_ could understand, a groan of irritation, and relegated herself to being carried by the giant to a waiting vehicle with tracks, a wide rear bed, colored white with a big red cross on it, that seemed to be something like a mobile bunk for the wounded. Between each bunk bed was a sort of slot. It continued all the way down the line, wounded turians filling most of the beds. Another ambulance was used for the human wounded.

Jesse swiftly lifted his leg on, lifted himself up, set Theadra down in one of the beds, then walked down and stepped down the height difference again in a smooth motion.

Theadra looked at the other Turians in the back of the ambulance, who were in varying shapes of disarray and levels of dead or dying. The living were allowed to keep their I.D. but the corpses were piled into another tracked vehicle. A corpse wagon. The I.D. were taken, and Theadra had a feeling she knew what the aliens were going to do.

Burn the corpses.

She wanted to struggle, but the pain of her wounds and the fatigue from multiple strikes of a heavy mace made it impossible to make anything more than a hoarse cry as the back of the ambulance was locked off and it began to drive.

* * *

 _Mercy_ was being battered by the endless discharge of Turian ships against her hull. Logan didn't want to leave, despite the damage to _Mercy_ and her systems, her armor, and the loss of many fighters.

He couldn't.

He wouldn't.

She never wavered, he could feel it, the crew could feel it, she never gave any indication that it was time to stop, time to run and repair.

But _Mercy_ , like anyone, could be _very_ stubborn to the end.

"Sir, General Abbot for you!" One of the ensigns reported.

"Bring him up on my terminal."

The ensign did.

"Logan, what in the name of all that's holy in this universe are you still doing here? Get home and repair _Mercy_!

Logan frowned "Abbot, I leave the Turian fleet'll have you surrounded on all sides."

"Good, target rich environment."

"Abbot!"

The Android waved his hand dismissively "Come on, Logan. _I_ 'm here! We're not losing Shanxi. Ontop of that is the sheer pain we've dealt the Turians _on the ground_ alone and what you've done above. I assume _Prelate_ , _Paladin_ and the rest went for repairs?" Abbot asked with an accusatory tone and raised brow, the analytic glare like a scolding father.

"Yes," Logan began with a frown "I told them to leave for repairs after _Hydra_ suffered a bad shot to three of her Turrets and lost most of her fighters."

 _"Logan."_ Abbot sighed and shook his head.

" _Mercy_ can take it, Abbot." Logan frowned.

"And if she can't?" The Ensigns stiffened at the General's accusation.

"Abbot?"

"The Turians are bringing in a numerically powerful Navy, Logan. _Mercy_ 's plates can take it, yes, but so too can power armor take a firing line's wave but it will, eventually, fall to a death of a thousand cuts. If we lose Shanxi we can take it back, or you can, incase I die. But if we lose _Mercy_ we lose more than a ship, _we lose a veteran._ We lose one of our oldest. You _can't_ tell me a re-takeable planet is more important than an irreplaceable veteran of the Alliance Navy and an irreplaceable crew with her. _Leave_ , Logan, and come back later and get these birds _off my shiny metal ass_." Abbot smiled slightly and waved his hand away. "Get."

Logan sighed and nodded, a grim expression on his face. "Understood, General."

" _Get._ " Abbot cut the connection.

"Activate Vyrillium drives and chart a course home." Logan said somberely and squeezed his terminal as the Crew looked back, as if unbelieving of the order.

"Sir?"

"Take us home."

* * *

The Turians, despite now having naval superiority, were having no easy time of attacking the humans. What surface bases were destroyed, _underground_ bases were elaborate and new bases popped up in record time.

They were like _cockroaches_. Where there's one there's a thousand and they were _notoriously_ hard to kill and that wasn't even the power armored units! The Humans could take any amount of punishment, more than a few suffered shots to the head or organs and still kept screaming and roaring as they fired their guns, turrets, or swung their melee weapons about in blind attempts to hit something.

Trenches were dug in areas built around Orbital Defense Guns, the defenders digging into the ground and protecting the vital, Ward shielded emplacements unbending to the Turian assaults. Not ground nor air nor orbital broke them. The land assaults wavered, the air were swatted down, the Navy forced to circumvent the dangerous railguns, sending slugs into space as they belched plasma with a thunderous clap.

The Wards, magical shields difficult to knock out unless the inscription itself is erased or the shield itself breaks, flared green with every shot riddled against them, the Orbital Bombardment _especially_ getting a bright flash out of them. But they never wavered, the operatives called ' _Blackwatch_ ' below, monitoring the inscriptions, said that they were doing excellent. The Alliance had the good luck that you could fire _out_ of the shields, and living creatures could easily come in and out without trouble, but firing in was another affair.

Difficult, if not outright impossible, unless a huge amount of fire was focused on it at once to overwhelm the shield. Orbital Bombardment couldn't pierce the shields due to the shelling being normally _one_ slug. Not a thousand. So far, the Turians hadn't become wise to this knowledge, or if they had, didn't want to waste the ammo when they could circumvent the batteries.

The Turians outside the shields, however, kept up a virtual siege on what Batteries they could, with most Batteries built _into_ mountains and sprawling complexes held inside to power and defend them.

Firebases, Ziggurats, camps and other fortifications just kept on popping up and being destroyed. The Turian resources, though constantly resupplied, were being _wasted_ and they knew it. Ontop of this, reports of monsters, things going bump in the night, kept on coming through to various commanders and being spread amongst the soldiers.

Where they could rest, relax, and generally lay back and put down insurgencies that sprang up at random, now they were tense, fidgety and scared. The creatures, demons from the night sky, would ambush Turian patrolmen seemingly at random and drag them off never to be seen again. Some could still hear their screams, mocking them in the night, begging for help that would never come. Crying for release that would never come. Begging for a mercy that would never be dispensed.

The Turians quickly began to wonder if the planet was worth occupying in the first place. They realized that they were fighting a war on two fronts.

And this was was beginning to get worse.

At night, there would be the wingest beasts known to the Terrans as Vampires, that would hunt the Turians. They'd scream in from the air, pluck the poor bastards, and pull them out to their nests rarely to ever be seen again.

One such poor bastard, however, discovered a whole 'nother terror. His patrol done, the sounds of distant machine gun implacements wiping out yet _another_ Turian wave and the thunder of cannons ripping apart vehicles ringing in the night, he retired to his bunk. It would be the next man's turn for sentry watch.

As he neared, however, he heard something. A wretching, sloshing sound joined by the sound of tearing meat. The sound confused him; was his replacement eating? Now?

With a sigh, the Turian rounds the corner of the trench to reprimand his ally when he stumbles on a sight he never wished to see.

A beast, a huge thing atleast 7 feet tall and muscuar covered in thick black fur, was tearing into his ally who seemed to have had his tongue eaten as he could not scream, nor cry, nor speak, as his internals were eaten by this monster.

A werewolf.

The creature turned it's shining eyes at the Turian and barred its teeth.

The Turian tried to fire, tried to scream, but the bullets did nothing and his screams were incessant. No one would come, they didn't know if it was a trick. If only they knew, they may've been able to help the Turian that cried wolf.


	7. Sorrow and Respect

_Grueling_ is the only word that really fits the combat the Turians were experiencing world wide. If it wasn't the humans, with giant legged tanks blowing apart cover and mowing down infantry, if it wasn't Guerilla fighters, if it wasn't the all-out aerial or artillery bombardments, it was the _monsters_ that came out after an intense bout of fighting.

They mostly came out at night. Mostly.

They'd come from shadow, dragging back corpses human and Turian alike, ignoring the Mechanoids, and where Sentries would rush to the shadows to retrieve the bodies and shine a light, they'd only find ground with freshly dragged bloody tracks and then..they'd disappear. Those who went without a light rarely cameback. Those that did, _didn't speak._ More than one had their tongue pulled out.

A human captured by the Turians, who had a translation program running in an earpiece, laughed when they interrogated him.

"You know nothing," he began, spitting a mouthful of blood at the Turian infront of him splatting him in the face "We were _in the process of stopping them!_ " He glared at the Turians around him who had ill hid expressions of surprise "Atleast on Shanxi. We almost had them. If you'd came a few weeks later, you'd never know of them. These things, The Others, are worse than you or I and you _birds_ came and mucked up our efforts of suppressing them!" He chuckled lowly "Now you're fucked. We're fucked. If _Mercy_ doesn't come back, _we're all_ FUCKED!" His tone took one of terror "They'll come back. The Others. They can't be in the light, not yet." The Human then glared deep into th Turian interrogators' eyes, but a look of pleading could be seen in it.

"For Gods' sake, stop this." He shuddered, the Turian behind him actually supporting him with two three fingered hands as the interrogator knelt down to look the man in the eye. "My god, you don't know what you've done."

"What _have_ we done, Human?" The interrogator questioned urgently.

"You've killed us. Unless The Blackwatch comes, we're dead. We know how to _suppress_ what's already here, but only _they_ know how to stop them from coming through. _Mercy_ , they'll arrive on her!" The man nodded, tone reassuring as if trying to tell himself. "They'll come. They have to. Otherwise, we'll lose Shanxi for awhile. We won't be able to take it back, not fast."

He glared "Because of _you._ " He sneered "They're coming you know. Vampires. Homo Malus. They're on their way. Every week, they grow. Every week, she gives birth. Every week, they get stronger. Every week _you're_ here, they get stronger. Every week this war rages, they get fed." The man's eyes seemed hollow now, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"The Blackwatch knows what to do. They know. They do. They can do it. They can. Really." The man just seemed broken after. Receeding into himself. No amount of shaking, no amount of questioning would bring him out of his shell. He was executed out of mercy. But the Turians felt no happiness from it. They only felt terror. What, _who_ , had they invaded?

Later that night, his warning rang true, as the Vampires swarmed their camp and did not do it slowly. They were attacked by shambling zombies, monsters like ghoulish versions of Humans, that sent jets of projectile vomit at them and attacked with a fury only animals could have. The ghouls tore into the Turians, uncaring for the gunfire aimed at them, with only a handful dying to their projectiles, anything that wasn't heavy. When the defenses were down, the monsters came from the sky.

Razor sharp talons, hypodermic needle-like teeth, and ear piercing screams spelled the end for the Turians.

The Vampires didn't kill for food this day, however. No, they killed for sport. The bodies were found in the morning, splattered slushes of once proud warriors, hung up on varying poles and arranged in ways as though macabre art pieces. In response, arrived The Others, monsters with vague form, that washed over the Turian camps that they could pierce with an otherworldly fervor.

* * *

By command of General Abbot and after a unanimous council from Generals the world over, it was decided that in defense of Shanxi and with the Others out in force at night to do what _none of them_ wanted to do, let alone the Alliance.

Turian trenches and forts were shelled by flat nosed rounds which impacted but didn't send up explosions or fragmentation. Instead, they hissed and released noxious gas into the Turian forces.

The gas tore their lungs, melting them from within and choking them on blood while their skin boiled and cracked from the noxious weapon deployed. Turians fell to the ground, screaming and trying to avoid the deadly weapon, failing and only choking themselves to death.

Abbot and his fellow Generals poured one out for their fallen enemy. If Abbot could cry, by god he'd be bawling. Chemical weapons should _never_ be used. But there was no rule against them. There was no law saying not to.

But the moral taxes was more than any General since the Great War was willing to pay.

But in this modern day, the reasons for them had merit.

The Others won't eat spoiled meat.

* * *

Around the world, Human defenders rose their bottles and glasses and canteens to their enemy across the lines declaring their sorrow for their fallen enemy. Small, tracked drones were sent across the lines with sterilized Turian rations. Messages written in Turian, the best they could anyway, said the same. "We're sorry. The Others won't eat spoiled meat. We're doing what we can to stop them getting stronger. End this war, we don't want it, you don't need it."

The Turians accepted the food, but didn't accept the peace. They, too, rose their bottles to the Humans and sent back a message on the same drones.

"We can't, much as we want to. We can't."

The humans, of all races, of all creeds and religions, expressed their sorrow.

In that moment, when the War was coming to its worst, when The Others ran rampant, Alliance and Hierarchy soldiers stood out in the open seperated only by a churned up field of earth riddled with bullets and tiny shavings of metal from both sides, both sides expressed sorrow and respect. To the Alliance, the Mechanoids and Humans alike, the Enemy was as human as any of them. To the Turians, they respected their enemies wiilingness not only to express sorrow for their actions, but to _try_ and offer up a good reason for it.

It didn't pay for the lives, it didn't pay for the misery, but it did help the Turians to see their enemy in a new light.

And made them question the validity of this war.

* * *

Jesse's hands were completely stained with blue blood, or his suit's hands were at least. But he felt like his hands, underneath the gloves, were _soaked_. One after another, he loaded the wounded onto the ambulances and airships with Humans and Mechanoids going to the medical ships with the Red Cross. The Turian wounded onto the Blue.

The Red Ships were hidden away from Turian eye, so as to stop bombardment, but even when not the Turians seemed to have a sense of honor and left them alone. Either that or they hadn't seen them. Either way he thanked his lucky stars.

He wanted the war over, such a feeling was felt all across the Alliance's frontline, rear, and center. Up, down, left and right. They wanted the war _over_.

Jesse wanted it over.

Wanted to go back to his greenhouse in Colorado, grow his flowers, watch them bloom and continue his college masters on Botany and his knowledge of medicine.

He joined the military as a medic, deployed to new worlds because he wanted to see the solar system and beyond, to see new plants, maybe even meet Aliens.

The trip hadn't gone as he wished, he knew it wouldn't, but he hoped by all hope.

C'est la guerra. C'est la vie.

He still had a duty to fulfill.

* * *

In a massive Warded base, acting as a prison for Turian P.O.W.s and Turian defectees, Theadra and her squad, what was left of it, and a few others sat in their cells.

Three hot meals, recess to stretch their legs, and warm beds to sleep in every night. It was a good deal, if one could get past the grim guards and constant threat of a shot to the head should they step out of line. Defectees got better treatment. While not outright _trusted_ , they had more freedoms than the P.O.W.s.

With a shake of the head, Theadra sighed and layed her head against the quikrete wall. It was another few hours till recess, till she and the rest could stretch their legs and breath fresh air. They all enjoyed luxuries, much as the Terrans cared to give them. Hell, the Terrans were outright nice to them, engaging in conversation with them and gleaming them in on some history of Terra.

It wasn't _so_ bad, she supposed.

With a clang, the heavy door at the opposite end of the hall was opened. With another, closed. Rubber footfalls could be heard coming down the hall.

Getting up and dodging her friends, Theadra waited by the bars to see who it was.

It was the man who nearly beat her head in.

He sighed, head uncovered, and pulled a chair over reversing it so the back was facing Theadra and her team's cell.

He sat in it.

For a pregnant second, there was no sound between either side. The Turians stared at Lukas, Lukas looked them all in the eye.

They just stared.

"Was it worth it?" Lukas asked as he rested his chin on his arms which he crossed ontop of the back of the chair. The Turians noticed he was wearing a sort of device on his neck which translated his speech to the Turian language.

"Was _what_ worth it?" Theadra asked as she crossed her arms, leaning against the wall as she and the others eyed the Human. She didn't trust the man far as she could throw him, not after what he almost did, but she figured he though similar to her.

"Was this _war_ worth it? Or do you have a policy to just declare war on new races because 'fuck it we can'?" Lukas asked, a look of disdain clear on his face. "Because that's a _very_ stupid policy to fucking have, I hope you realize that." They did, but he didn't need know that.

"Only on those that break Council law," Theadra answered, her own look of disdain coloring her face "Those we declare war on." the other Turians nodded their assents.

Lukas snorted " _What_ Council? What _law_?" Lukas questioned incredulous "Why? What did we do to you people that makes you invade?" He was distressed, this much was obvious, and they all knew he'd lost friends to this damned war.

"You broke the law," Theadra explained "That law that dictates activating Mass Relays is illegal. So we had to teach you a lesson." Just relay the mantra, Theadra.

"WHAT fucking lesson? That your people attack races that know _nothing_ of whatever law it is that whatever government made? We even tried to _talk_ to you. We sent a probe for you to retrieve and it was ignored!" Theadra and the squad's eyes nearly collectively widened, _that_ bit of information wasn't told to them.

"What probe?" Theadra asked unbelieving "What do you mean?" She wasn't going to be happy with the news, she knew it, but needed to know.

"Since the Alliance has gotten into space, we've stocked _all_ ships with probes of human cultures, language, all of them. _Mercy_ sent one when she saw your fleet incoming, your Captain Viterius. The Probe was _ignored_. It's not easy to miss and it was ignored. Your Captain payed for it." They'd all seen Viterius' head. Jason kept it as a macabre trophy for a bit, the freak.

Theadra's mouth went dry during the explanation, looking back at her fellow Turians who stood stock still. Swallowing, she turned back and huffed. "What happened to Viterius?" She had a feeling she knew.

"Jason, the man who broke into the Bridge, took his head as a trophy. The ship's being stripped, scavenged, and data mined." Lukas said with no small amount of pride.

"...The crew?" one of the others asked, voice small.

"Most are dead. Some surrendered. Some were executed for later assaults. Those that _weren't_ are here in this base. They defected."

If the revelation of the probe shocked the Turians, the last bit of news nearly knocked them and neighboring cells out.

But in some, sparked inspiration.

* * *

While the Terrans were courteous, hell they were downright saintly to their prisoners, and even had a measure of respect for their enemies, they had no font of mercy for them as was shown when a mech, a two legged beast painted olive drab with a great white star painted on her chest, fired her 75mm cannon at the retreating Turian lines. Each shell was a 'beehive' shell, a hollow canister filled with steel flechettes. After a small delay, the fuze would go off and the canister would open up showering a deathly hail of steel onto the retreating infantry.

Those that were too close for the cannon instead got one of the _four_ Ma Deuce .50 cal machine guns firing at them. Closer still, the foot, as was seen whenever she took a step and showed her blue-blood caked sole.

Her pilot was inside, a neurohelmet on his head allowing him greater control and connection to the mech herself. With mental command, he controlled the body as though it was his own and he fired the guns as though he was throwing punches or holding out his fist. Easy, simple to do, and with great result. He controlled the mech with glee.

His enemies fell before him, running from he and his mech, as quick as they could.

While he respected his enemy and wished the war over, he couldn't help but feel happy when he ended the very aliens that would slaughter his family with naught but a thought. In his wake, canisters of gas were released to stop The Others.

Can't have them spreading.


	8. Calm before the storm

The fighting began to become half-hearted. Even the most vicious and thoroughly loyal, hard-as-nails soldiers of the Hierarchy began to want the fighting to end so that both Alliance and Hierarchy could focus on The Others that, with every death, just brought together _more_ of the monsters. Turians lit up the shadows as much as possible, making stealth _im_ possible, Humans and Mechanoids watched from their lines with sorrowful looks on their faces.

"We _can't_ keep going on like this." A Turian commander was cornered by his subordinates, all of them tired of the war, tired of the terror in the night, tired of the artillery and gas and the 'spoiled meat' the Humans compared their dead-by-gas to. Tired of having to go through leaps and bounds to get _food_ when they apparently have the Naval superiority.

"What do you expect me to do, then?" The commander was not impressed with his subordinates' attitude, irritated even, that he was bringing this up to him.

"Surrender. Spirits, the Alliance is practically _showing us the way_ to safety! Runway lights, even!" The soldier was waving his arms, seeing the obvious route to _living_ five feet behind him.

"They're the _enemy_ , soldier. We don't negotiate with the enemy. That stunt you pulled with the returned note was serious enough!" _That_ was enough of a headache, he didn't need another one!

"They're in this too! They were trying to _clean_ this planet when we invaded, it's because of _us_ that we're _in this situation in the first place!_ " The soldier pointed a finger accusingly at his commander, who glanced at the offending appendage and glared at the owner, while the others nodded just a tiny bit, afraid of retribution. "And _you_ are keeping us here!" The commander unfolded his arms and stepped into the finger.

"What are _you_ going to do about it? You're a soldier, you follow orders and you do nothing but. As a soldier of the hierarchy-"

" _To HELL with the Hierarchy!"_

The silence was so _strong_ that one could hear a pindrop from a mile away.

"What did you say, soldier?" The commander said, voice a deathly hiss.

"I said: To HELL. With. The Hierarchy."

His friends were shocked when the commander retrieved his pistol from his hip and put a bullet in the soldier's head.

Shocked stupid, his friends stared at the body with eyes wide and jaws dropped.

"Mutinous insurrection," the commander started, pistol still at the ready "is punishable by death." The pistol raked over the remaining soldiers "Anymore?" the others shook their heads mutely, eyes wide and tears stinging as their minds caught up to the events that just happened.

"Get this filth out of my trench." He waved dismissively at the dead body. To hell with whatever happened to it. _It._

They picked up their friend, still warm and leaking blood, and slowly, somberely took him from the trench and out into the No-Man's Land.

When out there, one of them didn't immediately start coming back in.

"Come on," began one of them hollowly "Come back in."

The Turian soldier looked pleadingly toward the Alliance lines, seeing not the enemy lines but _a chance_. A way to _live_.

He began walking for the lines.

"Come back!" The Turians pleaded, shouting after him but too scared to run after him. Between the Alliance guns trained on the trenches and their murderous commander behind them, they didn't dare move but their desire _not_ to lose another friend was tearing them apart.

He just continued on. A spotlight fixed on the Turian and with waving arms, he was called over to the opposite lines.

The commander, getting wind of what was happening, came out armed with a sniper rifle.

The weapon extended, he aimed.

The Humans and Mechanoids watching saw the Turian's forehead explode out in a shower of blue gore mixed with bone and exoskeleton.

He slumped forward.

"Anyone else?" The commander challenged.

No one moved.

* * *

"My God.." shuddered a Gynoid as she watched the Turian fall over. If her knowledge of physiology was any good, even of Alien physiology, he couldn't of been more than 19. "Why?" She slumped against the trench. Her fatigues well stained from mood, blood and grease.

Her allies had no words in return.

What could they say when their enemy would kill their own for wanting to live.


	9. Clarification: DextroLevo Dichotomy

Ayyyyyy how're you all doing then. Sorry, not a story chapter this. Related, but not tied into the timeline and such. Damn, I couldn't of failed in explaining that more if I tried (English is my first language and I fail at it more than do I any other. Jesus I'm hopeless), anyway.

I thought I'd bring it up now, because I was thinking about it, that the disparity between Levo and Dextro amino biologies isn't going to be as extreme as it is in game. I bring this up because of the inevitable human/turian relations and interactions that don't include throttling eachother to death and screaming obscenities about eachother's parentage.

For example, in game, a human eating Turian food would get it in their stomach and then double over with the worst case of bubbleguts this side of the Sol system. Vice versa for a Turian eating Human, Asari, Krogan, Salarian, or (assumedly) Hanar food. (I'm not even sure if Hanar _have_ culinary experts really. They're _big, stupid jellyfish._ )

In this story, Visions, that isn't going to happen.

At all.

A human can eat Turian food (if they can get past the inevitable strangeness of the food's aesthetic, that is. Had thought of a human just slathering salt and spice on Turian steak and the Turians within three lightyears dying a little inside. Excuse me, need to chuckle.) without trouble, if they _do_ suffer effects it's individual not Inevitable. same goes for Turians or even Quarians, if they could take off their masks without becoming the brightest beacon in the darkest quarters of the galaxy for just about anything that'll make 'em sick/dead. They can eat Human food, if they suffer effects it's individual. Not encompassing or inevitable.

Wether or not they'd get as much out of it as a human/asari/every other gods forsaken creature in the galaxy, I'm not sure. Probably. Make relations easier when you can join an alien family for dinner and not stare hungrily at the full bellies while yours sits empty and rumbling. Nyaha.

Similar goes for kissing a dextro/levo Alien. No one's gonna break out in hives, bloat to the size of an airship, and float off into the distance because you got to the various bases with an Alien.

The reasoning for this is because, from all I've looked up, the Dextro/Levo dichotomy was _massively_ blown out of proportion than what would _actually_ happen should a Dextro and Levo alien meet, kiss, eat wham-bam.

That being nothing, or very little of anything.

To some this may feel like a cop-out, which I can see why you'd think that.

But read the description.

I'm following canon rather loosely. I don't think there were demons waiting in the shadows for Shepherd's team and there certainly wasn't a 'clap if you believe' element to them.

That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it!

Anyway, now that you've read my rambling and are probably thoroughly thinking "Tony get the feck on with it and get us back to the torture" which, fine, you dirty sadist. Next chapter's coming when I can get my fingers to work again.

* * *

Edit: Cannihilator brought up good points with his message on this chapter, being that it shouldn't not exist at all, but should still be prevalent. So, first, thanks Cannihilator, I recognize that I'm not the best at explanation so I thought I'd try to do better here.

I don't mean, with this clarification, that there's simply _no_ reaction from dextro/levo pairings. It's still there, just individual and not as severe as ingame canon. In game, it's either one or the other. In Visions, it's possible for Dextro/Levo people to eat foods/drinks/etc. of the opposite acid. Reactions may or may not happen, but that depends on a person's makeup and what may or may not be wrong with them. Now, if it were contained to a single planet, that'd be one thing. But in Mass Effect, most Civilizations have _planet_ spanning governments, crawling across solar systems. That's _alot_ of people. There's a considerable amount of people that _do_ get affected by the opposite acid-type, but they're in the minority, so it's generally assumed to be safe. Basically, it's forewarned with a "Be safe, don't be stupid." sort of message.

Again, for the third time, thanks Cannihilator for your words. Getting called on my bullshit's a good thing, helps me grow as a writer and not feel like an utter numbskull later on :)


	10. Incomes the cavalry

Somehow, The Others became worse. The Turians didn't know _how_ it could get worse, but it did. The Vampires attacks became _hordes_. The skies filled with the damned creatures, screeching and howling and diving down to pick up victims with their razor sharp talons. Those that were saved from being taken to the hive were begrudgingly dropped by the Vampires, sharp talons tearing into their armor and flesh as they dropped more often than not suffering even worse wound when they impacted.

There was no winning this war.

Across Shanxi, Turian battalions were mutinying and, should the commanders send word, bombarded from Orbit.

The Alliance could do nothing but watch behind their wards, drinking coffee and eating hot meals, while their supposed enemy died in the cold and unguarded trenches.

* * *

How long it had been since capture, Theadra couldn't tell. She didn't _care_ , she was behind large defended walls with a supposed enemy that put themselves bodily in the way of The Others and Vampires that dared try to infiltrate.

Swatting down the Vampiric Hunters, mowed down Human and Turian ghouls the Terrans were an immovable object to the Vampires' unstoppable force. The latter was a surprise to the Humans, they didn't even know Turians could _become_ ghouls. But, some time ago (months, maybe. Later calendars would reveal the time to be a long _three months_ ), they didn't know Turians existed either.

The twisted beasts that were ghouls stumbled or ran or crawled at defenses. More often than not getting close to _over running_ the shields or various mines layed out before them as machine guns of various caliber rattled after them.

The sound was incessant, the stink _terrible_ , all that made the stay in the prison bareable was the Alliance hospitality. The Turian Navy just stopped trying to bombard shielded bases, wasting ammo.

Other, unshielded bases, were shelled however. Cities were wiped off the face of the map. Alliance civilians massacred from above with neither care nor mercy.

General Abbot, and other Generals in the different theaters, began to push back against the Turians on the ground even harder but knew that they couldn't do it on the surface.

Alliance soldiers poured from underground, ambushing and slaughtering Turian soldiers and taking back the ones that surrendered.

* * *

Men in armor mined out paths underneath Turian emplacements and barracks, using Quikrete to shore up the walls and tunnels they made, while the men were surprisingly quiet and swift in their efforts. Pickaxes, shovels, and power armor mounted scoops were used to move mounds of earth. When in position, the men would sneak in and slaughter the Turians while they slept, poison rations and water, and cause havoc for the aliens. When the Turians inevitably found the tunnels, they found twisty-turny funnels that carried sound from this way and that devoid of light.

Many got lost, using omni-tools to find their way back, and when they'd finally get close to the Terran bases..

Turrets would rip them apart, leaving sloppy corpses pouring blood. The Turians later found out: The Terrans _angled the tunnels_ downward to the Turian lines.

The blood flowed to the Turian lines, creating knee-high pools of blood.

The tunnels were quickly sealed by the Turians who surrendered after.

* * *

But they were making no headway on the war with the Turian navy above.

And The Others were getting worse. The Turian Navy surrounded Shanxi, hundreds of thousands of Turian soldiers marching on Alliance soil.

Abbot got what he wanted, a target rich environment.

Now, he wanted _Mercy_ back.

* * *

The Turians watched the Alliance soldiers cross the no-man's land with bated breath. They, a number of them, had gone out to the middle with weapons holstered. They waited for the Alliance to do the same.

The soldiers, Mechanoid and Human, walked forth with their weapons slung to their backs or carried in a lazy grip as they eyed the Turians that came to the middle with a slight smile.

When they met, neither one said anything.

A Human walked forward, a Turian walked forward.

They embraced in the midst of the war, their allies _wanted_ to cheer but couldn't for fear of alerting the Turian commander.

The Human and Turian released eachother, gripping shoulders while both smiled wide at the shared mercy and understanding. "Come on. Let's go get the son of a bitch you call a commander." The Turian nodded, pleased with the translator around the Human's throat and into his ear. "Let's go." They released, the Turians leading the Alliance soldiers to their trenches.

* * *

The Turian commander bent over his maps and terminals, co-ordinating with other commanders and the Navy above to crush the Alliance. They had a plan already, for when they win the war.

Crush the Alliance, dismantle their A.I., relegate them to a single planet and keep their military at a level the Hierarchy can control. They already destroyed or made their Navy run. With the exception of these _creatures_ attacking, the Turian Hierarchy's victory was almost assured.

"Turn around." He heard the voice of one of his subordinates behind him. The Turian huffed and straightened up, turning. "What do you want?" He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a bristling wall of Turian and Alliance guns aimed at him.

"What is this?" He demanded, looking around at the Turian and Alliance soldiers glaring him down "Treason!" He declared, a hand shooting down to his pistol.

Said hand was shot by the subordinate that ordered the commander turn, the commander screamed when the shot tore through his hand. He dropped to a knee, grasping his wounded hand with a hiss.

His subordinates, the traitors, and the Alliance soldiers watched with grins on their faces.

"You're going to record a message for us." Said one of the Humans.

"Go to hell," the Turian snarled at the human before having a knee driven into his mouth.

"Don't," said one of the Humans "need him conscious."

Seeing the predatory looks of the various soldiers, the Commander felt fear.

* * *

Worldwide and deployed to the Turian Navy was a video. The video contained the commander, with plates pulled from his head and fringe snapped or snipped off. A mandible ripped off, an eye plucked out, and multiple broken exoskeletal plates across his head and face. His carapace had suffered heavily too.

"This is what happens when you fuck with the Alliance," began the Alliance soldiers in unison "And what happens when you force a war on a people that don't want it." Said the Turians in unison.

"You can all go to hell!" The commander hollered before a Human bullet tore his life from his body.

"Take this to your government, the Hierarchy and the Council, and let them know we're not gonna lay over and let you take what you want." Snarled an Android.

"And let the Councillors know we're not going to apologize, let the Primarchs know we're not going back for punishment. We're bad Turians," A human wrapped his arm around a new friend, a Turian.

"But damn if they're good people!" The Turian grinned wide.

"Now, I hope you have fun with the _hell_ you've brought on yourselves because By God we're gonna take this planet back. By sword, by gun, or by bare hand! When _Mercy_ comes back, that's the end of your navy."

The Turians and Alliance raised their guns aimed at the camera "And the end of your loyalists on this planet."

The video was played _all_ through out Shanxi, loudspeakers with propaganda spoken either by Humans with Turian translators or _Turians themselves_ , blared constantly, incessantly. Crates were thrown by make-shift catapults and trebuchets containing leaflets of propaganda at Turian lines, even as the Turians began cracking down more on Alliance soldiers and civilians.

Orbital bombardments just continued on near constantly.

The Turian Navy, however, was surprised when green/black portals opened some way from the planet and through the portals emerged _Mercy_ , _Paladin, Prelate, Hydra, Yellowjacket_ and a number of other ships. Immediately they began shelling the Turian ships. With them were two, matte black ships bearing no name nor shield. But they bore Polybolos launchers which _immediately_ fired. Toward Shanxi. When shot, green Ward shields flared and asborbed the shots with ease.

They made planetfall.

So arrived _Blackwatch_.


	11. Blackwatch's Arrival

_They just kept coming_. Ships of varying classes, both Alliance and Blackwatch, jumped into the Shanxi Battlespace, high and low and all around, sending slugs and glowing shells toward the Turian vessels. Glowing shells impacted, drilling into the ships, and then exploding in a vicious ball of plasma flooding the Turian halls with the material. Ships impacted by the shells, delivered by Blackwatch vessels, slowly melted apart as the crew desperately tried to find lifepods.

Great gouts of plasma exploded from the railguns of the Alliance and Blackwatch vessels, an intimidating sight for the Turians in their ships while on the ground the tide began to turn as dropships rocketed toward the surface covered by a screen of railgun slugs impacting Turian bases all over the surface.

Fighters screamed through the void bombing Turian ships with plasma projectiles, polybolos pods drilled into ships ruthlessly and those that didn't surrender were shown as much mercy as the Terran citizens were on the surface.

They also learned the power of Blackwatch Battlemages, a new enemy to them.

* * *

Nikulas didn't know what ship he was on, he didn't really care. He came from his pod firing, blowing apart Turian soldiers and when they bunched up he put away his weapon and resorted to using his magics.

His armor, blackened ceramic decorated with runes, sparked with his hands as the bullets sent his way were absorbed by a shield that sparked to life before him. The Turians started when his hands glowed with power causing one of them to shout "Biotic?" before a bolt of lightning was sent his way blasting a hole through his chest and leaving the smell of ozone and burnt flesh to permeate in the air.

He repeated the motions, focusing his mind on the magic in his hands to keep the bolts powerful. Eyes narrowed and focused, he attacked the terrified Turians like a man posessed. Security footage being streamed to other ships showed the terrifying display, causing many to wonder: Just _who_ had they invaded?

His hands joined then slowly spread apart, struggling as if being held together, before he smacked them on the floor with his fingers aiming at the Turians in the distance.

The bolts travelled through the floor, melting a path to them before it caught them and charred their screaming forms unrecognizably.

Continuing through the ship, ozone and charred flesh behind him, he deflected shots with his magic. The ability, though seeming like second nature to the horrified Turians, took alot of concentration. Nikulas' own abilities while great, outshined by other more dedicated Battlemages. His skills was in the Martial more than Arcane. Concentration, mental stamina, discipline, these were _essential_ to anyone wanting to commit to magic. Nikulas had to compromise.

By the time Nikulas was done with the ship, his mind was tired and he had to rest when back on a Blackwatch vessel. His mind thoroughly worn out from the exertion.

* * *

When the Blackwatch and Alliance dropships and pods came to Shanxi atlast, they were met with incredible fanfare from Soldier and Civilian, Human, Mechanoid and Turian (defectee) alike. They hit the ground hard and immediately ran/rolled/strode out from the pods and dropships. Power armor, exosuits, mechs, tanks, all of it came to support the besieged. Legions of men and women overwhelmed the Turians and put them to the sword or gun or bare hand as the tides, already, were being quickly turned.

The Blackwatch operatives, told apart by their matte black armor and differently designed vehicles, knew that the attacks would agitate The Others, The Vampires. But that's what _they_ are there for.

In their pods, on their ships, in dropships, men, women and mechanoid prepared liquids in glass vials or prepared totems, fetishes and other items for their operation. Enchanted silver bullets were loaded into magazines, a weapon classic amongst all that hunt the monsters and for good reason.

An iconic weapon as well to use against vampires: Garlic. Instead of the garlic strands worn over the neck or put on hooks the garlic was minced and liquified, put into pressurized cans to act like a pepper spray. Against Vampires, whose sense of smell _vastly_ beat a human's, it was the equivalent of unconsciousness.

Salt, to prevent The Others from crossing.

Pentacles, to dispel portals.

Various religious items, to pass out to Blackwatch operatives of their faith.

And, finally: A whole _hell_ of alot of bullets.

* * *

The gore was like that of a book, a story. Deaths on both sides were present but on the Turian side of things they were climbing and only getting worse.

Automatic shotguns tore into the close Turian lines, sending shot and ball tearing through the alien lines with showers of gore, dismembered limbs, and the wretching of Turians choking on their own blood or kneeling in the high mud and blood and slowly expiring.

The Alliance mechs stomped the dead, creating craters with waterfalls of blood and smushed bone and flesh as their cannons tore into Turian battlements and vehicles. Inside the mechs, pilots controlled the great vehicles with their minds via neurohelmets, making the pilots see the Mech's own body as an extension of their own. Men controlling their own guns, machine guns or disconnected cannons, mowed down and blown away Turians that were unfortunate enough to find themselves in the way.

The Power Armor deployed seemed to have changed since the beginning of the Invasion. Either that, or it was simply a different model, but instead of the heavy and 'full torso' looking version of before, the models deployed had a more humanoid shape in that _it had a torso and head._

The body was still thick, just slimmed down from the other model to a more human shape as opposed to the barrel chested, tree-trunk size and look of it. Finally, the armor had a helmet. Styled to look like an infantry helmet ontop of a human head, the armor itself was olive drab and white colored with one great white star painted on the chest. The helmet was slightly hidden by extended chest armor, which covered the lower half of the face.

The back, as well, seemed to have a built in shroud. The back armor extended up and over the back of the head, extending slightly into the shoulders but curving so as to not cut down on peripheral vision.

The arms had a five fingered hand on each, with a sword strapped to the left hip of the user with a serrated spine and sharp blade, the hilt guarded by a knuckle duster. While _completely_ un-needed for _power armor_ of all things, the knuckle duster acted as another weapon. The Blackwatch wielded a similar style of armor, painted flat black.

As the Alliance had shown; more weapons is better.

The armor, with the taking of Shanxi in play, was deployed _en masse_. Just like their bigger cousins, the Mechs. Bipedal, quadrapedal, hexapods and others were deployed aside their power armored cousins.

The Blackwatch, wielding what could only be described as _plasma throwers_ , used their weapons to punish Other and Turian loyalist alike burning them into nothing as the sickly green, lava-like substance sprayed over them held aloft by magnetic fields before it dropped off allowing the plasma to hit its target.

The weapon's deployment, as well as the various hordes of metal and ceramic monsters coming their way had Turians surrender in droves. Surrendering Turians were taken into custody. Any that fought suffered the consequences by mechanized foot or plasma thrower.

The Turian Navy above was suffering by the assault. The Human navy came _en masse_ and quickly overwhelmed them.

By the end of the week, the Turian Occupation of Shanxi had been broken and elsewhere in space, the Citadel Council was already churning up excuses, ambassadorial missions, and declarations of peace (much to the chagrin of the Hierarchy) but, for the Alliance and the Turian defectees, that was neither here nor there.

After all, The Others still _infested_ the world and The Vampires would need to be cleansed.

When the subject came up, all eyes turned on the Blackwatch whom hefted their plasma throwers and chainguns and cuffed their fists against their chests.

"They're ours."


	12. UPDATE: No chapter today :(

Sorry guys, I'm not feeling great today. I had a couple chapters in the works for today but there'sno way I can finish them without them devolving into jumbled ridiculousness of not-even english. Doin' my best.


	13. Cleansing fire

The Blackwatch set to work _immediately_. Salt poured in the borders of cities, creating a barrier from spirits while it slowed down The Others. Rituals used to dispel portals after The Others that came through were exterminated or chased into the portals. The few Vampires found hiding in the cities and towns were paralyzed with pressurized garlic liquid, tranquilized and carted off for later.

Particularly powerful Others were shot with the silver bullets from bolt action rifles with a thin cooling shield filled with thick fluid, the Alliance and Defectee soldiers, with a few civilians, watched fascinated as the flesh burned from the projectile buried inside it. The creature thrashed and writhed on the ground, another few bullets pumped into it striking vital areas. Constrained to the mundane realm, it was forced to take on a mundane form. Its heart exploded, melting from the wounds, and brain was shattered by a warhammer's spike driven into the skull.

With its head finally off, the Blackwatch seemed done.

"Is it dead?" One of them, Lukas, asked. "No, not yet." The Blackwatch operative held up the stiill twitching head "Gotta burn it first, salt it after, then make sure it's buried with a blessing."

"Spirits, what happens if you _don't_?" Lukas asked again. "It'll come back. It'll be awhile, and it'll be wounded, but it'll be back eventually." The head, and after the application of a heavy axe, body parts were deposited into seperate coffins.

" _That_ will come back?" Asked a Turian defectee, beige skin and blue markings denoting her as Theadra.

"Oh yes. It may take awhile. Months, years maybe. But these things, unless _truly_ put down, never die." Theadra and Lukas looked at eachother, at the Blackwatch whom already had a humored expression on his face, and then back at eachother before at the Blackwatch.

"Sir, if I may, these things are scary."

The Blackwatch laughed "Oh, I know! They are. Dangerous, too, if not properly dismissed. Salt has been spread, right?" A round of nods.

"Good, good."

"...Why?"

The Blackwatch smiled and walked off with the coffins strapped around his shoulders.

"..God I need a pop."

"I don't know what that is, but, me too."

* * *

Vampires weren't noted for their mercy, but no one _knew_ what happened in those hellish hives of theirs. In the hive, one of the men taken from the Terran lines was still alive.

His vision was flashy, in and out of consciousness with just enough time to see bleary eyed, sharp faced humanoids of pink fleshy skin tone with fingers and features far too human for anyone's comfort. They slathered a paste over his mouth, just part of it, as his body was moulded into a table that was moving unnervingly as though it was breathing.

Eventually, his body was one with the table-being and when finally he awoke. Above, the cieling of the hive seemed to be like the inside of a ribcage. Drones crawled all around the area, seemingly cultivating the fleshy surface with injections of blood from hollow fangs. Their bellies were distended, slowly deflating as they bit various parts of the hive's surface.

All around, the screams of other victims and hisses of the vampires met his ears, what was left of them. For some reason he was allowed to keep his eyes.

But he wasn't allowed to keep his mouth.

Tilting his head back, stretching the skin of the table-being below him as it wailed from the movement, He saw it.

He saw _her_.

The Vampire Matriarch.

She was huge, a belly hugely distended and roiling about with young yet to be born as the Vampire King, her mate, sat in it's own regal way against her right leg as though awaiting the birth of his progeny, his bloodline. The Matriarch had to be somewhere around 70 feet tall, 30 tons, and multiple arms rubbing her belly as she sat in a veritable throne of the fleshy substance.

Her head was massive and had a mane of light brown fuzz running from the top of her head down her back. She watched over the hive's proceedings almost proud.

Her eyes, her multitude of sharp and piercing eyes, fell upon his form and with a hissing roar she (and the hive) issued a call.

A feeder-drone came to him, slicing the new flesh of his mouth causing a scream of pain to erupt as blood choked him before the drone spread new flesh over his new chelsea grin, sealing them up, and clapped an intestine looking tube over his mouth and down his throat.

With a choke, he was fed a sickening mixture of blood from the Drone's own distended belly, causing his belly to distend and turn bloody red.

The Queen gave birth to a new clutch of babies, which mewled and squealed for food as they ran to the new source.

Suckling his belly, he tried to scream, but found himself unable. The drone was unresponsive, draining blood from the table-being below him and feeding a constant stream to the man. His nose covered, fed air by the Drone's own breathing form and an unnatural stretch fed to his nostrils, the man couldn't scream, for he had no mouth.

His only thoughts, _'I have no mouth and I must scream.'_

* * *

The Vampires were next. The biggest hive on Shanxi wasn't far from where they touched down. They couldn't just charge in, guns blazing and riverdancing on the Matriarch's form until she was made a corpse.

Much as they wanted to, it'd make a good story, they couldn't. So they prepared. Various varieties of clacking, wrenching, and steel on steel contact was heard as they prepared.

Rounds jiggled in their boxes as they were loaded up, belts pulled through the other side on many weapons.

The plasma throwers from before were joined by a relative; a flamethrower, these wielding large tanks which if they could be seen through would reveal a silver-white liquid sloshing inside. Flanked by it, another tank. Between those, another slightly thinner tank. The Blackwatch variant of the 'Firebug' Urban Incendiary Projectile System, developed for Power Armored units to lay fire into enemy fortifications and force surrender from terrified foes.

The Blackwatch variant used the liquid variant of a material they call 'Silverflame', a substance of blessed silver, wood shavings, and other components and later distilled into other properities. Grenades, powder, liquid, incendiary, etc.

The plasma thrower still carried more ammo. Dense cells of the material that counted as its ammo were barely used up by the assault previous on Turian Loyalist positions. Dropships sent to pick up the Turians were shot down. Lifepods either destroyed or captured, those that fought executed. Those that didn't, interned into prison cells.

Turian ships that surrendered, surrounded and crew subdued. Those that fought, destroyed. Those that ran survived if only barely _._

The plasma thrower, a veritable weapon of terror, was _not_ deployed lightly. Like gas shells, like orbital bombardment ( _Never_ used on Earth), like other terrible weapons, the terror inflicted by the plasma thrower was not to be taken lightly, rarely used on human or mechanoid enemy, near exclusively on Others or vampires.

The Blackwatch _detested_ it's use. But it, like all weapons, had a use. Do until evil.

* * *

Weapons, minds and bodies ready, they marched on the mouth of the hive. Carved with acid into the side of a mountain of thick stone, the hive was unnatural in its construction in that unlike the chaos of water carved channels, or the controlled madness of man-made caves, the acid carved channels were odd, wavey and rippled with stone and small chunks of ore melted into slag. The stone was made to ooze down, looking like the leftovers of lava flow after it hardens. For those without their helmets on or without a mask, the smell was already intense.

Those with better hearing could hear the toturous existance the victims of the Vampires suffered. They were no use dead, after all.

* * *

The Ghouls came first.

A horde of flesh and bone, Turian and Human, twisted and broken by torture they charged howling like animals into the Blackwatch force. Opening up with Silverflame throwers, the waves of Ghouls squealed in pain as their flesh was melted off and many fell, though others after such time feeding on themselves grew a keratin-like shielding over their skin. They became fireproof, though the silverflame affected them it didn't do quite as well with the heat.

They nearly broke the lines, though those that did were mowed down by silver bullets from the massed line of Blackwatch operatives.

The Ghouls, no matter the flame or bullets, kept coming.

So the Blackwatch just kept shooting.

With the power armored warriors leading the way and crunching bone, keratin and hardened flesh below them and clearing the way the rest followed killing stragglers as they went. When the Ghoul attack failed, they ran away back into the hive at the beck and call of the Matriarch who screamed a warning.

The sound resounded through the sick cavern while the Blackwatch continued.

In the distance, the Ghouls smacked together, joining limb and body part together with thrown up sick from drone vampires that quickly scurried around them.

The ghoulish amalgamation of living corpses quickly formed a Hulker. The keratin-like armor quickly grew over the Hulker's flesh while quickly forming bone created jagged and disgusting teeth. Drones pulled and manipulated to grow the Hulker's armor and teeth as the Matriarch so desired, hisses growls and snarls like a language telling the Drones what to do.

Finally, with long slashes down the Hulker's back of corded muscle and patchwork flesh, the drones threw up into the cuts.

With screams of pain from a thousand bodies, the Hulker had growing sacks of bile and acid growing in its back, arms growing from the joined flesh like the bodies trying to escape. They held the jiggling masses of clear membrane still until they were retrieved.

Corded masses of muscle joined and stressed under patchy flesh and a thousand eyes watched all around the Hulker's sickening Frankenstein-esque body.

With a final roar, the Hulker's transformation was complete.

It barreled back down the channel toward the Blackwatch operatives joined by another horde of Ghouls. When close enough, the arms cut a sack free from the Hulker's back while another already began to form. The arms moved the sack upwards as the Hulker reached and grabbed the sack and with a roaring heave threw the membranous sack of sloshing bile.

It impacted.

The armor of Blackwatch operatives that wasn't powerful enough to stop the acid and bile melted, along with the bodies of the ones impacted.

The acid didn't kill them, to do so would be a mercy. Instead, their flesh distended and boiled and melted together as they fell screaming into masses of quivering, crying flesh and pain before their allies, shaken, dispensed mercy and killed them. It was all they could do. To leave them would be beyond reprehensible.

Silverflame throwers dispensing again, the Blackwatch turned from their dead comrades and opened up fully on the Horde.

Body parts flew, blood fountained and bodies dropped. Grenades were thrown, bodies were stomped, and the Hulker was charging.

The plasma thrower came to the front, flanked by the Silverflamers and the heavy gunners and after altering his electromagnetic projectors, let loose.

Under the hail of Silverflame, heavy silver bullets and the superhot, lava-like plasma the Hulker squealed feebly and just a hair under fifty feet fell to the ground melting and casting fire into the sky as the smell reeked through the cave.

Saying a prayer for their fallen comrades, the Blackwatch walked around the Hulker's corpse and continued down the channel gunning down drones, ghouls, and the odd hunter horde that came for them.

Finally, the Royal Chamber was before them.

The sight made them sick.

Victims moulded into the fleshy floor, the walls pulsing like an organism in and of itself that coursed with sick veins carrying huge amounts of blood. The Matriarch glared the Blackwatch down in a very human expression of hate. Her Royal Guard and her King similarly hissed as Vampire Hunters bounded after them with murderous intent.

Silverflame created a screen that the Hunters slammed into causing the wretches to fall screaming at the ground while they writhed in the cleansing fire. The Matriarch screamed in pain as the flame touched the walls and floor, bullets flying all around the chamber, desecrating her disgusting home. One in two bullets hit a vampire, the other hitting one of the fleshy walls and causing a fountain of blood to spurt out drenching everything beneath in acrid blood.

Royal Guard came after them, the castrated beasts good only for combat, and were met by Silverflame and plasma being cast at them. The Guard were strong, big, and mean, and the Blackwatch were still losing number, even while the men gunned down the monster. One retrieved a blade of alchemically treated metal and leapt into it, roaring a warcry that got the Guard's attention. With a hissing chuckle, it leant down to gobble the morsle up and received the blade in his skull for his troubles. The Guard died, twitching, but the others lived!

While it was a hard fight, the Blackwatch kept it up much to the fury of the Queen.

The Queen herself hoisted her giant form from the wretched throne she'd crafted for herself, a belly full of babies falling from her now standing form as powerful legs held her huge form aloft. Even so, while the mewling babies screamed at the Blackwatch in a suicidal charge, the Queen fell forward and roared an ungodly sound at the Blackwatch operatives that shook the very cavern and their own souls to the core.

The Plasma thrower hurt her, obviously, but didn't kill her. Face heavily scarred, guards dying to fire and bullets, and babies long slaughtered, she swiped at the plasma thrower and caught his huge inagile form with a claw. Slammed into the fleshy wall, which acted like a blood soaked cushion, he turned as quick as he could and unleashed another gout of the super heated material at her face.

Another scream, another swipe. Furious was her call as the Blackwatch fired, stabbed, chopped and swiped at her legs, attempting to bring her down!

He set the thrower to'burst' mode.

Aiming his weapo, he unleashes an incredible torrent of super heated globs of plasma at the Queen, causing her to scream while her flesh sloughs off in blobs, thick blood caking his body and even still he kept firing! She screams, falling to the ground causing it to shake and blood to pool in the ground, attempting to smush the Blackwatch with her sheer weight.

She succeeds, killing many, and for her troubles the torrent of Plasma continues, taking basketball sized chunks of flesh with each shot. She screams, blood pouring and pooling around her as in an ironic twist of fate, her life of seeking blood found her death surrounded in it.

They'd done it.

The Hive was slain.

...Onto the next one.


	14. Hot Rod

A demonstration was being held. The demonstration, thankfully taking time from the war, was about the physiology of Vampires. Gruesome and a shuddering reminder to the populace, Alliance and Turian, that the creatures were demonstrably human, but necessary. Lukas and Theadra watched, both of them bearing grim expressions. Currently, the video was focused on the mouth of the creatures.

Unlike Vampires that found themselves quite popular in fantasy novels and art on Earth, these creatures didn't have humanesque teeth. They barely had a recognizably human mouth. Angular, sharp and strong. The lips were flappy but flexible, almost prehnsile, and lined with little barblets like the teeth of a lamprey's mouth. The teeth, long and sharp nosferatu-esque incisors with the teeth underneath curved wickedly like those of a snake.

The fangs, it was revealed, were also something like those of a snake in they had channels for a sort of venom to be injected through. A finger pressing in the tranquilized wretch's mouth revealed the sickly yellow liquid to drip through. A paralytic agent that kept the victim conscious and lucid, but unable to retaliate.

"Why?" Theadra whispered to Lukas as she watched.

"Why what?" He asked.

"Why are they..the way they are? Paralytic venom? Malicious?"

"We call them Homo Malus for a reason, Theadra." Lukas shrugged "Malicious Man."

"How did they come to be?" She asked, shuddering as the Blackwatch operative showed the wicked talons of the Vampire which were hooked and razor sharp. They, too, seemed to have barbles or snake-like cuts in the talons to resist struggling and cause more pain to those that tried to causing a reflex to stop the pain.

"We don't know," Lukas frowned "Some say cannibalism, some say they spawn in areas the veil's thinnest. Others say they just spawn. No one's really sure where they come from or why."

Theadra shook her head, the membranous wings held stretched open.

"If the Hierarchy knew these things were here we'd of been more prepared."

"If your people had come a few weeks later you'd of never known them to exist, Theadra. Let alone been prepared for them." Lukas gave a sidelong glance at her, the demonstration slowly coming to a close on the physiology of the Vampire hunter.

Theadra silenced, a sense of shame coming over her. With the demonstration over, Lukas began walking off. Theadra followed. Her armored boots cuffed against the concrete floor of the plaza they were in, some trees charred and broken by the war, while buildings bore the tell-tale damage of gunshots. She wore her armor, still, a light suit of ceramic with an undersuit.

"We didn't want to go to war," Theadra stated keeping pace with the still exosuited soldier "We had no choice."

"You always had a choice." Lukas said resisting a snort.

"No. We didn't." She replied with a somber tone "We didn't have a choice."

Dispensing a coin into a standing machine with a clear plastic cover, which was cold to the touch, showed different bottles of varying colors of liquid. Lukas pressed a couple buttons, a mechanical arm reaching down and pulling out one bottle and then another one. Both were slid into a tray.

Pulling the tray out and retrieving the bottles, Lukas handed one to Theadra who took the bottle a bit numbly.

He motioned for her to follow, which she did. She noticed he wore a sad expression to his face.

They went and sat on a bench, Lukas popping the cap off of his purple wrapped Vita-Pop causing it to hiss before he took a drink.

"We never had a choice." Theadra popped hers off and, with some difficulty, drank from her bottle tasting an assortment of what she assumed to be berries carbonated and sweet. Surprisingly, she enjoyed it. Thankful Turians before her had drank Human beverages with no problem, Theadra took another. "You do what the Hierarchy demands and that's it. If you're a soldier, anyway. Otherwise my people enjoy fair freedoms." Theadra fiddled with her bottle as Lukas listened.

"We invaded you because the Hierarchy ordered it. You broke Council law, admittedly you didn't know it," She gave a sidelong glance at Lukas "But law is law. The Hierarchy thought your people'd be easy to subjugate, make a client race, limit your military to suit our needs." Theadra shook her head "That doesn't mean we wanted the war." She turned her head to him "We had no choice in the matter." Lukas nodded, taking a drink.

"I get it."

"Do you?" Theadra asked, narrowing eyes suspiciously.

"Yeah, I get it. I admit I've been unfair. But with the deaths of Sasha, Berdicci, Amir and many many others I've yet to fully accept that your people are anything but unfair invaders." Lukas turned his bottle in his hand "But that's an easy trap to fall into. It's easier to kill your enemy when you don't see them as people but a collective mass that needs to be shot down." He turned his head to her with a smile "Not so easy when you buy 'em a drink and call 'em by name rather than Bird." Theadra took a drink, never taking her eyes off Lukas almost suspicious.

"We didn't want this war either, you know," Lukas began "Captain Logan, commander of Mercy, launched a probe at your captain in hopes that he'd accept it and try to be peaceful." Theadra nodded at this.

"You told me that back in your base," Theadra remembered the shock she felt "That Captain Viterius ignored it and attacked, causing his death and those of his crew." Lukas nodded in response.

"That's right. He attacked, was going for the science ship Athena, which housed civilians. So Logan did what he thought best and launched assault pods. Evidently, it was enough." Lukas took a long drink.

"There are no civilians in the Hierarchy," Theadra began startling Lukas "Only combatants. To the Hierarchy, all alien personnel on this planet were possible opponents. So the ends justified the means." She said hollowly. "Orbital bombardment, mass execution, you name it. If it brought Humanity under control." She lowered her head sadly "We didn't want that." She was surprised to feel

Lukas' arm wrap around her shoulders and squeeze her armored form lightly.

"I don't understand the Hierarchy's way of thinking. But I know a person from an organization. I get ya." He smiled "Don't feel sorry. I can't forgive you, or any other, for what you've done to my people," He said seriously "But I can't in good consciounce make you suffer for what you had no choice in." He released her and smiled slightly when her head tilted up to look at him "So how's about we try and start over?" He held his bottle in his right hand and held out his left "Lukas." She smiled wide and held out her right "Theadra." They grapsed hands and shook.

Later, the two of them were finally out of their armor. Lukas wore his olive drab shirt and khaki pants, a revolver strapped to his left hip and Theadra wore dark blue civvies with a shirt fit for a Turian. As in, fitting to her carapace as opposed to sitting ontop of it like a human shirt would. Admittedly, female Turian carapaces were less extreme than males, but still.

"So..what do we do?" Theadra asked, feeling like the proverbial fish out of water on a colony just recently she was invading. Her wounds were handled quickly, all the lead pulled out and the wounds stitched up by Mechanoid nurses, their mechanical nature kept their hands from shaking and allowed them incredible precision.

"Not terribly sure," Lukas shrugged "I've been given leave for awhile, thankfully. If you're staying, which I assume you are since you defected," Theadra nodded "You could try to learn more about life Civvies in the Alliance experience." Theadra smiled.

"I'd like that."

Theadra had learned that after The Omen War, the Terrans had no choice but to rely on sheer muscle and force of determination to help rebuild. The machines were diesel powered, mostly, and belched out black smoke like the maws of dragons as they hauled loads back and forth, hauled great machines and hunks of wreckage to rebuild what was nearly lost.

The Omen she learned, a dreadful menace of twisted flesh and machine, fought without fear and pain, sheer constructs of malice forged by the incredible outpouring of blood and hate that all sides directed at one another. This worked like a genetic memory in the minds of all Terrans, who still felt the pain of The Omen in their hearts even in the present day. Most humans wanted machine and man removed from one another, despite the obvious fact that man and machine were so dearly intertwined and that cyborgs were rather common.

This, ontop of the great mechanization of industry and Human life, resolved to create a sort of Luddite mentality in Humanity. While Technology, Mechanics and such were huge parts of their lives if they couldn't fix it with their own hands or solve it themselves they tended to dislike it or outright reject it and kept to simpler systems. Such was the case with much of the Alliance militaries vehicles. While Neurohelmets were an obvious departure from the Neo-Luddite rule, Theadra wondered if maybe the Terrans wouldn't be on their way to further intermingling.

Theadra watched interested as mechanics, Human and Mechanoid, worked on various cars in a multi-port garage. A 'Hot Rod' Lukas had called one of them. Sparkly purple, metal tubes flaring out from holes by the engine, a large engine with air intake unguarded from the elements. The size of it, and noise if she deduced right from Alliance military vehicles, threw her for a loop in comparison to the gentle hum of council vehicles back home.

"Why don't you switch to electric engines?" Theadra asked confusedly to a curious Lukas "They're quieter, have to be cleaner." Lukas shook his head "We like the noise. Not cleaner, by much anyway. We use Biodiesel. Almost no harmful emissions, same if not more efficiency, same loved noise. Plus, we can grow the crops used for it on other colonies. No point in fixing what ain't broken ya know?"

Theadra shrugged as she watched the Mechanics work.

"Just seems noisy." Was her reply.

"That's the point." Was his.

Her confused expression made him laugh.

When the owner of the car came and got his vehicle, starting it up while the mechanics, and Lukas and Theadra, watched, Theadra seemed converted when she heard the engine roar to life and, with a few rumbles and purs, was driven down the street as flames kicked out of its flaring pipes.

Her mouth hung wide and mandibles splayed out, Lukas couldn't help but grin.

"What do you think?"

"I don't like the quiet."


	15. Update: 4K Holy shit (Also I'm an idiot)

Holy gentle religious figures Batman. 4 THOUSAND VIEWS! Thank you everyone that's favorited this fic, reviewed and followed it, you're all awesome and you stay feckin' awesome!

Observer01 brought up the fact that I forgot Desolas and Saren in the FCW.

 _I slightly feel like an idiot for it, because I completely forgot either one existed in Mass Effect._

Feck.


	16. Insight

After her recent conversion to the roar of diesel engines, Theadra felt excited to see other aspects of Alliance life. One she kept seeing, albeit unable to translate, was propaganda. After some reassurance from Lukas, she learned that the propaganda wasn't _against_ anyone, more inspiration.

Posters depicting scenes like a man in a red shirt and blue denim overalls, which bore a big tear, and another of the man and his wife repairing the overalls, and the last being a humorous scene of the overalls poofing off the man, who wore a comically surprised expression on his flush face, with white underwear decorated with red hearts underneath. "Wear 'em out, fix 'em up, until they poof!" Theadra couldn't understand the words, but she could get the message.

Another one, of a woman smushing a tin can and sliding the cap into the folded metal, and her handing it and a number of others in a box (which had an x-ray to show the cans inside) to a man with a smile on his face. "Don't throw away! Recycle! Find your local Recycling Office and get paid for scrap!"

"Why do you put these up?" Theadra asked Lukas who was now chewing on some sort of chocolate bar. The man seemed to love his sweets.

"Reminders, tradition, that sorta thing." Lukas answered as they passed another poster with a number of people working a field of crops with the words "Grow your own, lessen the strain! The Alliance Land Army!" while baskets of crop waited to be collected. "We've grown so accustomed to it since a war a couple hundred years ago that..it just simply won't go away nor do we want it to. We enjoy it, the majority atleast." Theadra nodded looking at another with a woman holding an armful of cans filled with fruits and veges and honey, with the words:

"Of course I can! Winter won't bother me, no sir-ee!" Theadra pointed "That one?"

"Alliance citizens have it suggested to them to grow their own food, so as to halt the strain on other farming colonies or to try and bolster sales. See, we grow food and can sell it at the farmer's markets. After which, there's a tax that allows the Government to get some money while the one selling it also gets their own profit of the crop and the community gets food locally. More often than not, people will can them, so as to preserve them. Bee-keepers' products are especially well liked. Honey's hard to spoil."

"That one?" Theadra asked, excited, at a poster of young girls and boys with teachers, Human and Mechanoid, standing by them with big smiles as the children worked on wooden products ranging from birdhouses to small houses, to carving. The poster had text over it: "Shop class makes young kids strong adults! Talk to the teachers and see what classes are available."

"Shop class, physical labor taught young so children can learn how to work with their hands, how to use tools and do repairs and projects on their own." Lukas smiled at this "Mom and dad put me through a shop class as a kid, I don't regret it."

"When I saw all this propaganda," Theadra shook her head "I worried it'd be something to _distract_ people. Surprised to know it's for inspiration, instead."

"That's right," Lukas nodded "Colonists and Terrans are encouraged to grow their own food and sell at market, fix their own tools and other things, repair their clothes and pass it down, and recycle what they don't need and take it in for a profit. Is it not similar back home?" He tilted his head finishing his chocolate bar.

Theadra shook her head "Lots of plastic in comparison to your huge amounts of steel and aluminum and wood. Everything's computerized and holographic. More throwaway, I suppose would be the easiest way of describing it." Lukas' face gradually became one of a scowl.

"No thanks. I prefer something my grand daddy used way back when to something I look at wrong and it breaks."

Theadra got a good laugh out of that.

Every now and again, especially around more public areas, they passed posters calling for the fat from meats to be taken to meat dealers for explosives, for community gardens, for raising livestock and for, in general, patriotic duty.

As she could see, from the homes that were _already_ being repaired, the propaganda worked. Fields behind homes were being worked, men and women carried bags full of recyclables, and small trucks with wooden fences on the sides, filled with rattling glass bottles and tinkling hulls of tin cans, were rolling down the street toward the Farmer's Market.

"This is amazing," Theadra sighed as they found a bench to sit in "you don't see this back in Council Space."

"No?" Lukas asked, frowning when Theadra shook her head.

"Few people like farming, most have never worked a farm, and especially not to the point your people are doing. I've seen more people with patched up clothes than I have new in quite possibly my lifetime."

"Strange concept for me," Lukas shrugged leaning back against the wooden bench as a breeze kicked up in the air causing the trees to rustle their green leaves to the air's whim carrying mixed scents of the battlefield and scents of flowers, crops, and corn-fuel "Of course new clothes and such are made and bought in great amount but alot of people like repairing what they have. Bit of a mix I suppose." He took a breath of the air "Everyone likes new clothes. Just many like to repair theirs." Theadra nodded as she crossed her arms.

"It's a good thing."

They sat there in companionable silence, as the Battlefield was raked clean of bodies, Human, Mechanoid and Turian. Corpses were set to their own tractors, dropships awaiting the load for them to take the Turians upward into space. Word was, an ambassadorial team was coming soon. The Alliance wanted to make a good impression; they may've fought the Turians fiercely but they should still be buried on home soil.

* * *

On _Mercy_ , General Abbot walked the halls to the bridge passing men and women that offered congratulations which he accepted, but made sure to remind that he wasn't alone on Shanxi. To remember the fallen. The passing men and women saluted and said their affirmatives before going on their way.

The halls were gun metal grey, tall and in typical art deco fashion; geometrically angled. The sharp arches served dual purpose: Style and defense. Should the unthinkable happen and _Mercy_ be boarded or, _god forbid_ , mutinied upon, the halls served great strategic advantage to defend the Bridge.

Around him, pneumatic tubes hissed gently as canisters of paper work was ferried to-and-fro along the ship's titanic 4 Kilometer long body. Around him was warm, as was reported by all that came aboard _Mercy_ , like an embrace in the winter, guarding against the cold of the void.

Alive, was the only word for it.

He came to a large, bulkhead style door which, upon sensing his arrival, spun its great wheel and slid apart with a gentle hiss.

In the Bridge, with ensigns clattering away at their terminals and Logan standing looking outside the great armored window at Shanxi, Abbot smiled slightly. An Ensign noticed him and suddenly went rigid, standing and saluting smartly "Officer on deck!" The other ensigns followed suit quickly, Logan turned and grinned when he saw the still living form of Abbot standing in the door way. "At ease, all of you."

The Ensigns went back to their work.

"General Abbot," Logan began with his big grin "Look at you being alive." Abbot snorted through his mechanical nose, a motion not needed as mechanoids didn't need _air_ , but one most mimicked anyhow.

"If you'd of come a little later I wouldn't of been. Good work bringing the Blackwatch with you. Also good on you for managing to kick the Turian navy in the softs when ya did."

"Teach 'em not to dick with the Alliance navy, Sir." Logan chuckled when Abbot grinned and patted his shoulder "Come on, let's head to my office. Ensign Fischer?" The Gynoid in question looked back at Logan.

"Yes, sir?"

"Call XO Eden and have him take over the bridge while Abbot and I discuss in my office."

"Yes, sir!"

* * *

Logan's office, like most officer's quarters, was a bit big. Two levels, though not drastically what with the second level being a few steps under the first, with black and gold marble decorating the floor and walls. Built into one of the walls, amusingly, was an aquarium of various fish.

The room was lit up by a long strip of warm light built into the cieling and one built into the walls.

On the first level, a large chocolate brown wooden desk with a computer terminal, a typewriter, and a penumatic tube poking out slightly from the wall with a pair of canisters awaiting Logan's use.

At the far end was a large bed, king size Abbot deduced.

Next to that, was a pair of brown genuine leather couches with a table waiting before it. Built into the wall behind the couch that ran along the same wall as the tube (to the right of Logan's desk) was a large bar area filled with earthly drinks.

Directly across from that, just before the foot of the bed on the left side, was what Abbot assumed to be a large closet. Or Armory. Both, probably.

Next to them, behind the desk, was the doorway to the bathroom and shower.

"You opulent toad, look at you." Logan laughed at Abbot's scoff "What kinda 5 star hotel is this we walked into?"

"Welcome to my office!"

"Office, says he. 5 Star hotel some place. Walked into a portal somewhere."

Logan shook his head and lead Abbot down the stairs and sat in one of the couches, opposite the closet, and sighed into the comfortable seat. Abbot sat in the other couch.

"That was a close engagement, son." Abbot began causing Logan to look down at the, chronologically, older Mechanoid who was reclining back in the couch himself, previous gripings about opulence and toads forgotten, or atleast put on the backburner.

"Yeah, I heard the fighting on Shanxi was tough."

"Yes, but that's not what I meant." Abbot replied making Logan groan.

"Abbot, please.."

"You're a good man Logan, but your head's harder than _Mercy_ 's hull."

"I didn't want to abandon Shanxi, you, the Generals, or the men on the ground."

"Which is a good thing, shows you care about us 'Lowly groundpounders'," Abbot said with a grin making Logan's own appear again "But if it jeapordizes _Mercy_ again, I'll bring my groundpoundin' feet up here and plant 'em so far up your ass the moisture on my knee will quench your thirst for the next year 'long. Understood?" Abbot narrowed his eyes as the oculi's lights dimmed slightly.

"Yes, sir."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, SIR!"

"Attaboy!" Abbot grinned at Logan and thumped his thigh softly "You're still an opulent toad."

"Oh, go pound some sand. Want a drink?" Logan asked, laughing at Abbot's 'Really' expression.

"I know you're a heap of scrap, Abbot, but humor me."

"Fine, but only because I wish I could be affected by it." The two men laughed at that and joined together, having a couple drinks and more accusations of being a lavish amphibian thrown about.

In the back of both men's minds, though, they knew this 'Council' that the Turians spoke of was on their way.

They didn't know wether to be excited or terrified or both.

* * *

 ** _(Because I, myself, have the brain of an amphibian and forgot Saren or Desolas in the FCW, I'd like suggestions. Bob, you bring up good points, so thank you for those! If anyone has suggestions, I'd be happy to hear 'em. If I use 'em, I'll credit you. Thanks for reading!)_**


	17. Ambassadorial Visit

General Abbot was always a man of action. Didn't care much that his uniform was clean and pressed, just that his men knew they could look up to him and knew that he'd bend his enemy backwards to see his men pull through.

A father to his men, that's how he's known.

Abbot, a man of action..disliked looking _too_ fancy. _Too_ opulent, as he jokingly referred to Logan as. _Too_ inhuman, much as he already was. He disliked the flash and the razzle and dazzle. _'Give me fatigues and I'm fine, damn you.'_ He'd always say. But, it was almost necessary to wear the uniform so as to be recognized _instantly_ as General. He could wear a helmet, he often did, with the stars. Or paint 'em on his head, he'd definitely entertained the idea.

T'would look something a fool, though, with stars painted on his head.

So, he swallowed his pride and put on the olive drab uniform decorated with metals and, after checking the gun hidden inside his arm (just in case, he'd told himself), strode out from his Ziggurat and with a guard of six power armored guards, 2 wielding AutoShots and the rest wielding Shorties, stepped into the huge dropship and felt it pressurize, then rise into the sky.

With a burn, it broke atmosphere and the weightlessness of space met them before the artificial gravity kicked in.

"Are you ready, sir?" Asked one of his guards, Jason.

"Not a chance, son." Abbot smiled "But there's no rest for this old metal heart yet." Jason chuckled good naturedly, wearing the new set of power armor (as were the rest) with his shorty pointed at the cieling, held on his back by a mounted mechanical arm.

"You're not _that_ old, sir," Jason began "Just under 135." Abbot laughed at that.

"Smart ass, that's how you get thrown in a cell."

"My apologies, sir."

"I didn't say stop, damn you."

* * *

Logan and Abbot met with a firm handshake, both of their guards doing similar (or headbutting eachother's power armored heads), and Logan smiled slightly. "Ready?"

"Ask Jason."

The next few minutes were tense as they waited in the bridge for the Council ambassadorial team to arrive.

What would come, none of them knew. _Mercy_ herself, flanked by _Yellowjacket_ , _Prelate, Paladin,_ and _Hydra_ waited in space as their guard kept watch all around Shanxi.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

"Contact!"

* * *

The ships that popped into view from the giant salad fork in space were of strange design, Alien in the most obvious ways. Most of them were sharp, angular, predatory, obviously Turian ships. The Alliance had destroyed, dissected, researched, cannibalized and scrapped enough to know.

The others, of a sort of cross shape, were impossibly _smooth_ and had a light blue/violet tinge to them. They didn't _cut_ through the void like Turian ships, they didn't break through like Alliance ships, they almost _danced_ their path in the void and exhuded impossible beauty.

"Opulent bunch of aliens."

Abbot, always knowing how to break tension, made the entire Bridge laugh.

The Turian vessels, being the ones easiest translated, sent a data packet (After some difficulty, due to the _massive_ difference in technology) with the language, and some of the culture, of the owners of the cross shaped ship.

The Asari.

"Blue human women with tentacle heads." Abbot deduced smartly, earning another chuckle.

"Yes, sir. Downloading translation and spreading it around the ship. They have another data packet with them." Reported Fischer.

"Open it," ordered Logan.

"Frogs. Birds, squid, and frogs."

"You're a master of observation, General."

* * *

Translations downloaded and the two officers ready, the guards ready (as well as another compliment of soldiers) the two ships, the Asari ship and _Mercy_ , met atlast.

A boarding bridge brought between the two, the Alliance one overshadowing the Asari boarding bridge and clamping down on it. The airlock pressurized, matching the atmosphere of _Mercy_. From the packet, the Asari breathed the same as humans and thus, neither would need to wear helmets.

What worried Abbot, was his nature as a mechanoid.

He shrugged internally. _'They can deal with it.'_

The airlock opened, revealing a team of Asari and a team of Turians.

The pictures didn't do the Asari justice, in the minds of _Mercy_ 's crew. All female, from what the packet said and what they could see. Crystal spires and togas, was the thought in the minds of the Alliance.

The ones without helmets all had beautiful feminine faces, drawn on eyebrows (not a hair to be seen on 'em) and seemed to wear perfumes about them. Dresses hugged tight to their curves, cut to show a bit of skin to get the imagination running and likely distract, while the ones in the back...wore what appeared to be spandex skinsuits.

None of the crew could _complain_ , but really?

Their weapons looked like plastic. Lightweight, quick to fire and aim, easy to break.

In comparison to the Human weapons: Steel, wood, little plastic, some aluminum, heavy but as durable as all get out.

Abbot resisted shaking his head, but only because he locked his neck servos.

The Turians, Abbot had to admit, looked better armored. Most ofthe Turians, barring the Ambassador, wore helmets and heavy armor and heavy weapons.

' _They learned._ ' Abbot resisted a smile.

Upon spotting Abbot, and a few of the guards behind him and the power armored units, the Asari and Turians stiffened a bit. The Ambassadors had the good training _not_ to, but he could see it in their eyes. They were not happy.

"General Abbot and Captain Logan, correct?" The Asari began after a courteous bow, her eyes never left either man.

"Yes, Ma'am." They answered in unison, both of them bowing heads or nodding in return. Logan smiled slightly "Welcome aboard the ATND _Mercy_ , my ship." He stressed 'my' a bit, making sure the Asari knew who ran the ship.

"Captain, it is good to meet you. I am Mirucina Gasava, Ambassador to the Asari Republics representative on the Council." The Asari smiled. It seemed genuine.

The Turian was next.

"I am Ambassador Vepius Dominus, Voice of the Turian Hierarchy in this system." Began the Turian, who had a red skin tone and golden designs on his face centering around the tips of his horns and fringe and under his eyes and on his chin.

"Good to meet you. General Abbot, Alliance of Terra Commander of the Ground Forces on Shanxi."

Vepius stared Abbot down for a moment, eyes narrowed on the Mechanoid's own before looking at Logan. "The existance of A.I.'s is against Council Law."

"I'm no A.I., _ambassador_." Abbot glared as the Asari seemed to have a storm roiling in her mind. Logan and her met eyes, the data transferred instantly.

 _'Is he always this blunt and stupid?'_

 _'I'm afraid so.'_

 _'I do dearly feel for you.'_

 _'I need it.'_

"What I am," began Abbot "Is an Android. A lifeform inhabiting the physical form of a male robotic shell. What I am, _Ambassador_ , is General of the Alliance forces on Shanxi's earth. What I am, _Ambassador_ , is a man with little patience for those whom try to ignore me when we're trying to sue for peace in an unjust war."

The Ambassador fixed his glare on Abbot again "You tampered with the Mass Relay."

"We were _studying_ the giant fork, Ambassador."

"Tampering with the Mass Relays is _against council law._ "

"We had no idea your council existed until a few months, _Ambassador."_

"Enough!" Logan and the Asari ambassador shouted.

"We came here for peace, Vepius." The Asari hissed at the glaring Turian while Abbot kept a neutral expression, but his dimmed optics showed his glare. "Do not risk it now. Do not pull the rest of Council Space into a war we don't need nor we want."

Vepius snorted but, regardless, kept his retort to himself.

Mirucina sighed and bowed her head as she looked at the two Alliance ambassadors with a frown "I am sorry for my friend's lack of tact. You have to understand, in Council Space, Synthetics- er..Mechanoids, are held with fear and distrust. By Turians especially."

"Forgiven, Ambassador Mirucina." Abbot nodded at the Asari, optics bright again "We did just come from a three month war with his people, so I can let it slide this time." He ignored Vepius' ill hidden look of disdain "I don't understand why my kind are feared in your space, but I didn't expect the red carpet either." Mirucina smiled, not understanding the figure of speech, but happy he could forgive her fellow Ambassador's rudeness.

"Come, if you would." Logan motioned for Mirucina and Vepius to follow as, from an elevator in the floor, a large wooden desk appeared with four chairs. Two to a side.

"Of course," Mirucina nodded her head taking one of the seats while Vepius took his own, reluctantly.

"Now, Ambassadors," Logan began as the guards moved to guard their respective leaders as a man in Black armor with nearly platinum blonde hair stood behind but between the alliance ambassadors. His face was neutral, though his hand over a revolver strapped to his hip showed he was ready for combat. Unknown to the Ambassadors or their guard was the shield runes he'd carved into the Officers' seats. The magic would hold until the end of the talks.

Any Alliance soldier could recognize him as Blackwatch.

The Aliens didn't know that.

"As my friend here said: Tampering with Mass Relays is a crime. One you were not aware of until you were attacked, I understand that." Mirucina nodded as the two watched her and Vepius closely. "The council is willing to forgive this crime."

Abbot wanted to speak but decided against it.

"However," She frowned and looked at _Abbot_ directly "The deployment of chemical weapons, the execution of prisoners, and the theft of allied Council ships is not so easy to forgive."

"The Others won't eat spoiled meat, Ambassador." Abbot began with a frown, eyes dimming as they flicked down toward the desk for a moment then back up to the Turian's face which bore a hateful glare "Gas shells _never_ should be used and it's an act I'll hold for the rest of my life. But the times were desperate. If I didn't order the use of those shells," Abbot made sure to keep the blame _specifically_ on himself "The Others, the monsters, would've become _much_ worse. Neither Turian nor Alliance would've came off that planet alive. It was a risk too great to hold."

"There's that name again, "The Others"," Began Vepius with a shuddering breath as he tried to calm himself "What, exactly, _are they_ , _General_."

"Our friend here can explain that to you." Supplied Logan as the man in black armor stepped forward and placed his hand over his heart and bowed slightly.

"Ambassadors, it's good to meet you. I'm Nikulas, Blackwatch Operative of the Alliance of Terra."

"What are these Others, Nikulas?" Asked Mirucina with furrowed brows.

"The Others is the generalized name for the creatures that lurk behind our vision, Madame Ambassador." Nikulas began with an official tone "In essence, Demons, Ghosts and Imps that so often are depicted in fantasy." Nikulas' face didn't move when Vepius snorted.

"By the Spirits! You're justifying my people's torture with _fantasy_?"

"Ambassador, I dearly wish that they were just fantasy. But if you've seen _any_ recording from the ground you'll know they're very real. What General Abbot said is true. The gas we use leaves an awful taste in their mouths; they won't eat any corpse touched by it. There's no law in the Alliance against using such shells. But, as is Abbot's case, the moral tax is often too high to pay. But when desperation grips your planet and the desire to stop something worse from coming through is a priority, gas is seen as a fair price to pay. No matter the cost."

Nikulas frowned slightly "The Others inhabit a realm opposite ours, this being the Mundane realm. The Others reside in the Supernatural realm, where they rule. Where other realms lie. Seperating our realms is a Veil. This veil is sensitive at best. Like ceramics, it can take damage as spread it out and along. The Veil remains strong. But, if too much suffering is felt too quickly in one place, the Veil, like ceramic, cracks or rips open. From this tear, spawns The Others."

He looked at Vepius now who, surprisingly, had an underlying look of fearful understanding to him "I know it may not make much sense to you, Ambassador Vepius, but believe me and the officers here when I say that what happened on Shanxi would've _never_ happened anywhere else, in any engagement, no matter how dire. If The Others weren't involved, you'd of never known we had gas shells in the arsenal let alone the gall to use them. But, such is not the case. On behalf of Blackwatch, The Alliance Navy and Army, and all citizens of the Alliance, I am deeply sorrowful what befell your people at the hands of our army. But we had no other choice."

Vepius was silent, for once, and wasn't grumbling by the end of Nikulas' explanation. Instead, he stared with an expressionless face, but his eyes told the story.

He looked down at Abbot, who wore an ashamed frown and, with more emotion than should be _possible_ for mechanical oculi, shared a look with Vepius.

"I still don't agree that A.I.'s should be given such a rank in any military, let alone allowed to walk free," Vepius began with his old tone causing Abbot to bristle slightly "But I can see where you're coming from. Or maybe I'm going crazy, I'm not sure." Vepius sighed "But..If what you say is true..Then thank you."

"We have as many bodies as we could recover of your dead, Ambassador, and as many I.D. tags as we could recover. The bodies are in cryostasis for transport. The Tags are ready for your retrieval as well."

Vepius was silent, again, for a moment, before nodding thankfully "Thank you, General, truly."

Mirucina smiled softly "Thank you, both of you." She coughed softly bring both Alliance men's attention to her "Now there is another thing. The defectees."

"What about them?" Abbot asked.

"They're criminals." Vepius replied as if it was obvious "They abandoned the Hierarchy and thus are slated for death via hanging by the neck until dead. We want those defectees arrested."

Abbot rose a brow looking at Logan, who, in another look in the eye, had a _'NO'_ resounding in his head.

Abbot looked at Vepius again and gave his answer.

"We in the Alliance have a phrase for defectees, Human, Mechanoid or in this case Turian: "They're Humans Being." They defected from the Hierarchy, seeking asylum with the Alliance. We gave it. As of that decision, they're no longer soldiers of the Hierarchy, but under the protection of the Alliance. I cannot give them to you, the Parliament has decided their fate."

Vepius gaped, Mirucina's eyes widened, Logan grinned internally, Abbot dared Vepius to try anything.

"How _dare_ you! Those Turians are _criminals_ and deserve to be tried as such!" Vepius pointed a talon at Abbot who shrugged undisturbed.

"The Alliance Parliament has aknowledged their status as defectees of the Turian Hierarchy and they have commited no crimes during their stay as refugees of the Alliance of Terra. They have been absolved of all past crimes. Officially, they're not criminals. I cannot hand innocent men and women over to you." Abbot's eyes darkened "We don't do well with our civilians being threatened, Vepius."

Vepius started to retort when Logan chimed in "Ambassador, I must remind you where you are." In response, the power armored guards' weapons folded from their backs and, held by the mechanical arms, they retrieved them while the arms folded back in. The weapons were held at low alert, but the Turian and Asari guards unfolded their weapons and held them at medium alertness.

" _I_ 've accepted you onto my ship, _Mercy_ , to discuss peace. The defectees stay, they are non-negotiable. Should they wish, they may head back to council space, but that will be of their own volition. Not by coercion."

Vepius steamed, clawing the wooden desk as Mirucina took over.

"Officers, please. You're treading on a thin edge by doing such a..extreme move, however, war between the Alliance and the Hierarchy would only bring in the rest of the Council's might. The Councilors do not want that. None of us do. We extend an offer of peace to the Alliance, on behalf of the Citadel Council, in hopes that maybe said peace can grow to trade or possibly more." She smiled, trying to salvage the quickly dissolving negotiations.

"Peace is _exactly_ what we want, Madame Ambassador, thank you." Logan returned Mirucina's smile.

"Good! I was ordered to bring documents for you both to sign, as Ambassadors of the Alliance."

"Happily."

So they did. They signed the holographic pad with their signatures, rank and all.

With the signing by Mirucina and Vepius as well, peace was finally had.

 _Mercy_ herself seemed to warm after the peace treaty was signed.

The war was finally over.

* * *

The talks weren't over _yet_ , but for the day they were. Before the ambassadors left, Vepius steaming slightly, Logan, while saying goodbye, asked Mirucina a question. "You sent me a packet with three races; yours, Turians, and these amphibians, Salarians. Why send three when only two of you arrived?"

Mirucina chuckled at this and leaned in whispering softly "The Salarian ambassador would be more interested in studying your ship than anything. I was sent to keep Vepius in check. I'm sorry for his attitude, by the way."

"It's fine. I understand I ruffled his proverbial feathers a bit. Talks continue tomorrow?"

"Correct."

"Abbot and I will see you then."

"Goddess light your path, Captain."

* * *

 _ **(So. Much. Dialogue. Oh Gawd.)**_

 _ **(I'm aware these talks seemed to have gone in the way of the Alliance pretty heavily, but I'm doubtful the Council would want to agitate the Alliance much longer if they managed to hold the Turians long enough for the Navy to return when the Turian Hierarchy is bascially the strongarm of the Council's will. Next chapter will be another set of ambassadorial talks; this time about wether or not Humanity will join the Citadel Council.)**_


	18. Citadel Visit

_**(Before we continue on with the chapter I thought I'd clarify something that Toothless brought up. That being Admiral Steven Hackett has yet to appear. I haven't forgotten him, he's been on my mind since I started, but I have no honest idea if he'll be appearing**_ AT ALL _ **in this story. Idk how many canon people will be. The squad members will be there, along with others, of course, but mostly this is gonna be an OC filled story. I'm lousy at clarifying this all early, which I'm sorry for. Fans of Hackett, please don't storm my home with pitch forks. I love him too. But, over all, this story has**_ Always _ **had OCs in mind of the AU that is Visions.)**_

 _ **(Aaaaalso because the character you're about to see wasn't given much personality aside from "WAAAAAAAAGH VILLAIN" in a sly, charismatic way, much of his (and his brother's) personality will be made up for the most part. I've never read the novels, sad for me. Possibly good for you, the reader.)**_

 _ **(I realize I've been remiss in my duty as an author to detail what time this takes place in. Currently, in story, the year is 2150. Thirty years before the events of ME1. The councilors that appear do so because I wanted them to. Turian councilor is probably in his 30s, so will be sixty by the time ME1 comes around, Salarian will be dead. Sorry about that.)**_

 _ **(Thanks for reading that, thanks for reading this. Let's get onto the story and let me stop flapping my proverbial lips.)**_

* * *

Aboard his own ship now, Vepius sighed as he heard one of his guards following him. "Desolas, do not start." he warned but he could tell the Turian wasn't going to back down. Behind him, the Turian in question, Desolas, brother of Saren whom guarded Vepius as well, took off his helmet.

"You allowed the Human and his A.I. to cow you into submission, failed to get the defectees, and believe his pets words about _demons_ of all things?" Desolas hissed dangerously "You failed the Hierarchy this day, Vepius." Desolas' dark blue eyes seemed to blaze with fury, dark blue skin and carapace broken up by a light cream colored forehead plate.

Vepius whirled on Desolas with a snarl, faces inches from eachother "Watch your tone, Desolas. The Hierarchy made me Ambassador for my skill in politics and I will _not_ be talked down to a minor General that failed to _come_ to Shanxi let alone _take_ it. If anyone failed the Hierarchy, Desolas Arterius, it's _you_."

It took all Desolas' strength not to gouge out Vepius' eyes, rip his mandibles and pull out his tongue for his words. "I couldn't come to Shanxi because _you_ tied up my support fleet, Vepius. I would've arrived had _you_ not been in my way. I would've had these humans subjugated and under the rightful, watchful eye of the Hierarchy were it not for _your_ 'Political Prowess'."

"You have alot to learn, _General_ Desolas. Sad that you're too proud to learn it. Or too foolish to." Vepius turned on his heel and walked down the hall, ending the conversation.

Desolas almost continued down the hall after Vepius when he felt a hand plant onto his shoulder.

Whirling on the owner of said hand, Desolas' glaring gaze fell upon the silvery-blue exoskeleton of his younger brother, Lieutenant Saren Arterius.

"Saren." Desolas said, a tone of scolding for his interruption.

"Desolas, it's not worth it." Saren warned with a shake of his head. Saren, like Desolas, had longer horns extending on the sides of his head that met in length the tips of the horns on his head. A rare thing among Turians, something similar to either a birth defect or the signs of a subspecies long absorbed into the greater genetic pool. "I don't like these..primitives having any more power than they do nor the fact that they harbor traitors, but what's done is done. The Council has spoken, the Hierarchy has spoken, it's peace." Desolas snorted pushing his brothers hand off.

"We failed this assault, Saren."

"Powerful as we are, we cannot win them all." Saren nodded "When the humans join the Council their military will be suppressed and A.I.s will be shut down, destroyed and recycled. Do not worry, brother, all will be right again."

Desolas snorted a sigh and began to deflate. Trying to find something, _anything_ , to take his focus off of Vepius and the traitorous defectees. "I heard you were chosen for Spectre candidacy." Desolas looked at Saren with a proud smile. Saren returned it.

"Yes, the Council found my skills to be more than adequate and I am to become a new Spectre. My first assignment is expected to be Alliance space."

"Good, I'm proud of you brother." Desolas patted Saren's shoulder, before leaving just as quick as he'd deflated.

Saren felt pride at his brother's words, but worry as well. How would the proceedings go when the Alliance ambassadors would be called to the Council?

If they had any sense, they'd accept.

Otherwise..he was unsure.

* * *

The week passed _quick_ with multiple meetings between the Ambassadors of both factions. Agreements were met, mostly with information being transferred (basic, unclassified info) while _anything_ to do with Vyrillium was shot down instantly.

What amazed the alien ambassadors is the Alliance's utter lack of knowledge of Protheans and lack of use in Eezo. Especially with technology that _appeared_ to be so much more primitive than their own.

The Salarians would have a _field day_ , was what Mirucina and Vepius deduced.

By the end of the week, the call for the Alliance ambassadors was called.

To the Citadel.

* * *

 _"By god that station is_ HUGE." Abbot accurately described the Citadel in but a few words. A giant, almost flower looking station that, set behind a purple nebula, just seemed to look ethereal. In all arms was seen the lights of cities.

"You can say that again. Please don't." Logan said then warned when Abbot grinned.

They arrived on _Mercy_ , followed by two Battlecruisers and a few destroyers. After the war, Parliament was wary of the Council's summons of their team and pulled no punches in the escort.

Battlecruisers, a medium point between Battleships and Cruisers, with the speed and endurance of a Cruiser with the power of a Battleship, made up a bulk of the Alliance navy.

"Alliance ship _Mercy_ , this is Citadel Traffic Control. State your business."

Logan chimed into the terminal "Citadel Control, this is the ATND _Mercy_ requesting a port to send a dropship in with Ambassadors Abbot and myself, Captain Logan, at the summons of the Citadel Council."

"Stand by, _Mercy_."

A beat.

"Permission granted. Send your dropship to port 422."

* * *

Coming from a world (Earth, Shanxi to a lesser extent) where Art Deco is one of the favored architectural styles, Abbot, Logan and their guard were _no_ strangers to extravagence. Just..a different _kind_ of extravagence. Art Deco was alot of geometric shapes, sharp angles, deep carving and some gold plating/leaf. The Presidium of the Citadel was something else entirely and _impossibly strange_ to the foreign aliens.

Smooth, unbelieveably so, and with more smooth rounded edges than they were used to. They felt out of sorts, wearing angled, slightly boxy armor (Logan and Abbot wearing armor under their uniforms, hidden underneath the olive drab and navy blue uniforms) and carried pistols in light brown and black leather holsters on their sides, light brown belonging to Abbot and black belonging to Logan.

They were treated the same, as well, by aliens of all kinds. Wether they be giant, knuckle-walking elephantine beasts, small and rotund aliens that hissed, four eyed scowlers, amphibious Salarians, or other aliens, they all treated the Alliance with curiosity and fear, Abbot receiving more of the latter, though by the scowlers and Salarians he received a fair amount of the former.

The scowlers had the eyes of businessmen, the Salarians ones of utter scientific desire.

They made it to what would be their embassy. Too open for either officer's taste. Big ol' window, easy for snipers. The tree outside, wether artificial or not they didn't know, didn't provide cover nor armor.

The officers, wise to possible snooping, put on masks and activated their communicators, this model silencing them to the outside world.

"Making us wait." Abbot said.

"Making us know we're not all that important, that they have other things that takes precedent over us." Logan replied, standing by a wall with his arms crossed while the guards stood watch, placing themselves in the way of possible assassins.

"You'd figure they'd try to be more courteous with the body that just gave their strongmen a kick in the softs." Abbot snorted, sitting on a couch with his arms crossed, oculi turned off and pointed at the floor, his jaw never moving, instead using his voice box to speak to Logan.

Mechanoids never _technically_ needed to move their mouths or jaws to speak. A built in voice box did the job for them. But, almost all Mechanoids chose to do so anyway.

"They're politicians, Abbot, not soldiers. Probably never worked a day in their lives."

"Judging by the area we're in, no, not a chance." Abbot replied with a simulated snort.

"Earth's pretty extravagent."

"And filled with people whom most have a garden and their children take shop class, repair their own gear. Generally work with their hands."

"Fair point."

* * *

"The Councilors will see you now," an Asari poked her head in when the door hissed open. Neither Logan nor Abbot could tell how old the Asari was, as they lived for a thousand years and aged slowly. She could be 25, or 250 for all they knew. Damned confusing.

The Alliance ambassadorial team and guard exited their 'embassy' and, taking about the _slowest_ elevator in the galaxy, made their way upward.

"Do you think this'd be lighter without us here, sir?" Jason asked.

"Doubtful. Probably slow as all hell because they don't know what fast means."

* * *

The Council Chambers weren't much better in terms of extravagence. Huge, smooth pillars held up the cieling while balconies offered views to various people in the chambers. Guards in plainclothes, the lot deduced, it wasn't too far from the imagination.

Walking up various stairs, which would make _excellent_ sight lines and cover against attackers, and passing cherry trees, the Ambassadors came up to the pathway that would put them under the view of the Councilors, which were a good _50_ feet above the Human and Mechanoid, and stood before a gigantic window looking out into the grand nebula behind them to give a godlike aura.

Neither Logan nor Abbot were impressed. They'd seen this display. They had to admit, somewhere deep inside them, that the Council had their view down to a T.

"Ambassadors Abbot and Logan, welcome to the Council Chambers," began the Asari councilor who wore a long white dress and had white markings on her face and one on her lip. To her right (Abbot and Logan's left) was the Turian Councilor who had a 'Holier-than-thou' air about him, while the Salarian ambassador was scrutinyzing everything about the new visitors, a hand to his chin deep in thought.

"I am Councilor Tevos. With me is Councilor Sparatus," she motioned to the Turian who nodded once "And Councilor Valern" she motioned at the Salarian who bowed his head respectfully.

"Councilors I am General Abbot, Commander of the Alliance Forces on Shanxi." Abbot saluted smartly, tone official, and mask thankfully long taken off.

"I'm Captain Logan, commander of the ATND _Mercy_ , it is good to meet you all." Logan, too, saluted.

"It is good to finally meet you both. Let us begin."

"Where do we begin, Councilor?" Asked Abbot.

"The first is an official welcome to the Galactic community. On behalf of us on the Council and all who have an embassy here, we welcome you."

"On behalf of the Alliance of Terra, of the Human race," Logan began leaving off for Abbot.

"And the Mechanoid race," Abbot finished.

"Welcome to you, Councilors." Logan bowed his head slightly. He could feel eyes on him from above.

Snipers.

He wasn't surprised.

"Now, to begin..you understand our stance on Mechanoids, correct, General Abbot?" Tevos began tentatively.

"Yes, Madam Councilor." Abbot nodded.

"Your kind are a ..most curious case, for lack of a better word."

"How so?"

"300 years ago, a race known as the quarians created a race of A.I. known as the Geth to serve their purpose. These geth were originally a servant race, for menial labor. Eventually, they gained sentience, causing war between the Quarians and Geth. The Quarians' hubris and their failure to stick to the law cost them their homeworld of Rannoch. That's why your existance is..complicated." Tevos frowned slightly.

"Nothing complicated about it, ma'am. Humans created us for similar reasons. Menial labor. Work the fields, construction, fight in wars, that sort of thing. We've been sentient for a _long_ time, Ma'am. Humanity found out we were sentient, had feelings like Humans, could love, hate, be sad and be happy like them. We mourned when we killed humans, when we held them in our arms, when they died by the score in the Great War."

Abbot kept his face neutral "When Humanity found out we were sentient, they had a collective moment of fear and Mechanoid lives were lost, this is true. But we didn't retaliate. We knew it would happen. But we waited. We let Humanity cool down, so to speak, and collect themselves. When we didn't burst forth and attack, but wanted to share life as they did, Humanity took us in their hearts. For _centuries_ now, even _before_ the Great War, Humanity has been creating automata. We've been around for a long time. We simply waited. We were rewarded when Humanity took us in, treated us as equals, granted us rights, and in turn many mourned our deaths and how we were used in battle, in labor."

"Now, in this modern age, we Mechanoids love Humans as much as they us. They create us, always have and always will, and give us a chance. To be quite honest, esteemed Councilors, there's nothing complicated about it. We simply had the patience to let Humanity throw it's fit. It worked out in the end. Now, here we are. We're not going anywhere."

Abbot held his hands behind his back, standing proud "To be quite honest, Councilors, there's nothing complicated about it. We're here to stay."

Tevos, for her credit, used her age and experience to keep her face relatively neutral while Valern continued drinking in all the information and history, interested in the fact that an A.I. could be so expressive. Despite the fact that its, _his_ , very _being_ there broke Council law, the Salarian couldn't find it anything _but_ interesting.

Sparatus, despite being the head of the Hierarchy's councilate, surprised both Logan and Abbot by having a sort of _satisfied_ nod after Abbot divulged the information. From what Abbot knew, the Turians placed a premium on honor (of a kind) and honesty. Finding neither dishonor nor a lie in Abbot's tone, he seemed convinced atleast for now.

"Your arguement is certainly convincing, General. In my opinion there is no room to discuss it, but I must warn you that your kind is _severely_ distrusted in the galactic community after the Quarians' violations."

"I understand, but we've overcome adversity before."

Valern piped up this time, speaking and blinking quickly "Your ships, it seems, _completely_ lack Element Zero. How is this possible?" Logan stood at attention "Atomic reactors and Vyrillium cores power our ships and allow our ships to operate easy. As well, we've created gells that quickly cool our weaponry, made heat sinks that repower our reactors, and, in general, have found a way. This, Eezo, you talk about, we've never experienced it. Never found it."

"This Vyrillium, what is it?"

Logan smiled "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I'd rather attempt it," Valern motioned Logan to continue impatiently.

"Magic. Vyrillium is magic, a special form of, condensed into a mundane material. We've been using it for a number of decades now and still haven't found _everything_ there is to know about it, but damn if we've not tried. Vyrillium powers our ships, allows jumps, and is something of a 'wonder material' but is also dangerous to those not trained in its use and care."

"Magic." Valern said, deflating slightly. "Really."

"I told you, councilor. You wouldn't believe me, but it's _very_ true. A little over 100 years ago, in 1945, the Second World War was _raging_. Mechanoids on all sides battled alongside humanity, Mechanized walkers, early Power Suits, _much_ worse than gas shells. The Others. All of it came into play and, as Nikulas told Mirucina and Vepius, the veil didn't rip or break. It _burned_. When finally the second world war ended, The Omen war started. Twisted monsters, abominations and mockeries of human and mechanoid life arose. Vyrillium was a big part of this, both on the sides of the Allies and The Omen."

"The Omen War lasted well into the 1950s. When finally it ended, all countries of earth were in dire straits. Eventually, most countries joined together in the United Nations before multiple alliances were formed. The American Alliance, the Alliance of African Countries, The European Union, The British Empire, The Nordic National Alliance, The Arabic League, The Pan-Asian Alliance, and The Russian Republic. Eventually, these Alliances came together when Human and Mechanoid made it to space and became The Alliance of Terra."

"Magic has _always_ played a role in Human society, no matter _what_ form it comes in. Vyrillium is just that which is most easily grasped."

Valern listened intently, digesting the information and cataloguing it to his labyrinthine mind.

"So Magic is what replaced Element Zero for you, then." Logan nodded.

"We saw recordings," interrupted Sparatus "from one of the Hierarchy ships this 'Blackwatch' invaded. One man appeared to be flinging _lightning_ from his hands."

"Magic, Councilor."

" _How_ does it work?"

"I wish I knew, I really do, sir," Logan frowned with a shrug "Because I really don't. He says concentration, I know it _really_ drains the mind after a serious bout of magic use, depending on the skill of the mage. But aside from that, I'm not sure."

"The footage was..disturbing," Tevos frowned with a hand under her chin "All that power coming from a man's hands."

"It won't make you feel any better to know Nikulas isn't a great mage. He's the equivalent of an apprentice."

Color drained from Tevos' face.

"And..what would a master look like?"

Logan's eyes widened slightly before he answered "The finger of God."

* * *

The talks eventually came to the big one.

 _The Big one._

 _The_ _ **VERY big**_ **one**.

"Captain Logan, General Abbot, there is one last thing we wanted to offer to you, and the Alliance."

Logan and Abbot stiffened.

"As a newcomer to the galactic community, we've already extended our welcome. Now we wish to extend our hand." Tevos began.

"To join a body of many, in trade, in culture, and in defense." Sparatus continued.

"We extend the offer to the Alliance, Human and Mechanoid, to join the Citadel with an embassy."

Logan frowned, eyes narrowing "What's the catch."

"Your fleets would be reduced, your amount of Dreadnaughts would be reduced to only a few, and you will convert some of your treasury to that of the credit so as to make trade seamless. As well, research teams from the Council races and from your own would have access to technologies both hold to further Galactic cohesion and knowledge."

"With this knowledge, do you accept our terms? Does the Alliance accept becoming a member of the Citadel?" Tevos asked, in her mind the outcome was already well and settled. She mentally started her preparations for the next meeting."

Logan and Abbot looked to eachother, right in the eye, and held it for a moment. They both know what they wanted to say.

What the Parliament told them to say.

Turning to the Councilors, keeping them waiting a beat, Logan began. "Esteemed Councilors, your offer is incredibly generous. For that, we thank you." Logan smiled.

"However," Abbot interrupted causing all alien eyes to go to him "Your cost of reducing our fleet, reducing our dreadnaughts, allowing your people to research our technology, this price is too high. The Parliament of the Alliance of Terra had already prepared a counter offer. We'll convert some of our treasury to that of Credits and trade we will _happily_ accept from the Council Races as long as you'll have us. But we won't join the citadel, not if it cuts on our fleets and breaches our Vyrillium core reactors. We've told you unclassified material, but that's as far as we can go. Beyond that, that's our best deal."

Pins on Earth in the deepest mines could be heard dropping the silence was so great.

"What?" Began Tevos, a deathly low tone to her voice.

"You do _not_ get to make demands of the Council, _Ambassadors_!"

"That is our best offer, take it or leave it." Logan glared.

The two stared eachother down, heat levels rising in the room considerably (or it was in the onlookers' minds, likely the latter) before Valern chimed in "Done."

All eyes were on Valern now.

"I say we take the deal." Valern looked at his fellow councilors in a way that said "Don't argue" causing Sparatus to hiss while Tevos, thinking a mile a minute, reluctantly agreed.

With the vote two to one, Sparatus reluctantly accepted.

"We accept your deal..Ambassadors." Tevos said, a level tone betraying a seething mood.

"I'm glad we could come to an understanding, Councilors. If you'll excuse us."

The officers left with the power armored men surrounding them and eyes boring holes into them from the balconies.

From one, listened Desolas Arterius.

To say he was unhappy, is an understatement.

* * *

 _ **(I am not good at politics)**_


	19. Update: Dossiers

So, everyone, I have a stomach bug and it's making me wanna kick something. I was thinking about uploading a dossier or two, but have _no_ idea what to put in said dossier. So, I ask you, what do you want to see in a dossier?


	20. Alliance codices

The Alliance of Terra is an organization borne from the United Nations, which was in itself borne from the League of Nations, that unites all member nations of Terra into a common goal to protect Earth, stop another Omen war, and further Human and Mechanoid kind into the stars.

Individual competition is seen as healthy, such as the race between America and Russia to see whom could get to space first with the new Vyrillium technology, and encouraged so long as neither member-alliance comes to blows. Each Alliance/Government under the Alliance is able to continue its own individual desires and goals, to block which would be seen as anathema to the Alliance of Terra which is descendent of the attitude after the Omen War.

That attitude being: "We survived. We're here. We're staying." This attitude has bred a sort of individualism in most countries, even some rivalry, though most will throw in immediately should something threaten another member state (Example being the First Contact War, with Shanxi being a sort of 'Pan-Alliance Operation', when the Turians declared war on the planet of Shanxi's defenders they declared war on _all_ of the Alliance of Terra.) and inter-military cooperation is relatively frequent, although most keep to themselves.

All members of the Alliance are expected to donate bodies, arms and armor to the Alliance ontop of other taxes so as to help the whole. Members of the Alliance continue to better their own arms, armor, weapons and sciences however all donate to the Alliance in some way. Stinting out on one supplemented with another is an easy way to earn ire, but overlooked if the replacement tax is filled to a satisfactory level. For example, a member-alliance low on bodies (Personnel) can, instead, put in a higher amount of raw material, money, or other supply like industrial might.

The Alliance has been observed to be one of two _massive_ parallels or sides of a coin.

On one hand, they deploy gas, fire, chainsaws and will in general pulverize whoever fights them and snarl like berserkers doing it.

On the other hand, surrender and the Alliance will in general accept and take the surrendering party in as a prisoner of war. Prisoners of war are, despite enemies, treated _amazingly_ well in comparison to what happens to so many in the greater part of the galaxy.

Murder, rape, slavery, interrogation or straight up _torture_ can be expected from most.

From the Alliance the worst that often happens is harsh words, pushing around and a callous attitude while _still_ being given three hot meals a day, a bed to sleep in, and recess to stretch one's legs.

* * *

Fuel:

Biodiesel fuel is used by _all_ Terrans. Some more than others, but used none-the-less. The switch from fossil fuel to biodiesel was a switch that was slow in the making, but for many worth it, as it helped to halt wars (not _stop_ them, but slow them down) and skirmishes and was better for the environment (which became a big part of many's minds after the Omen War) and for the most part, smelled of corn, and could be made in the backyard.

But, because Biodiesel's a relatively _time consuming_ thing to make, it was left to Biodiesel stations (owned by farmers that grew crop to _create_ the stuff in the first place, staffed by people hired by said farmers) that could turn a profit for rather cheap and not suffer people's time.

 _Mass_ BioFields are _HUGE_ biodiesel crop farms that are either the giant patches seen from the sky or, more rarely, _vertical farms_ that do more for less land but cost more.

When the Alliance made it to space and began to tap into _geothermal_ energies, this offered up an easy way of supplementing fuel: Make petroleum from algae. It's possible, if expensive, and is made in huge amounts from gargantuan algae farms linked to geothermal power plants (Endless energy, after all) which is then processed, in a week or so, into petroleum, into crude oil, which is then used elsewhere.

BioPetrol is used in just about everything earth extracted petroleum is. This makes life easier for just about everyone, Terran or Colonist. Despite the large amounts of plastics created, steel, iron and wood and other materials are preferred for most things.

Plastic is also used to create what are called microtubes, far smaller versions of vacuum tubes used to transmit power.*

It seems wonderous, but remember the expense. The Alliance's algae oil is expensive, valuable, and jealously guarded. Do not touch. Do not look in its direction. Don't even think about it. Biodiesel, anyhow, for it's cleanliness, is vastly preferred as it gives the normal rumble, roar and purr of any other Diesel engine but does so without an eventual summer in winter.

The reason for the environmental care taken to such extremes as to create petrol from algae and biodiesel from crops is because after the War, so many people _really feared it was the end._

(*This is the reason so much of the Terran technologies are bulky. Where the other races use transistors and such, making their technology _infintismally_ small, the Terran technology is large, bulky, and made durable.)

* * *

Environmental:

The Omen were named becuase they were thought to herald the end of the world.

The Harbingers of death.

When The Omen were destroyed, people _fanatically_ started to repair their lands.

The African Alliance was one of the states at the forefront; namely with their brutal anti-poaching laws. Rather than sent to prison for killing endangered animals or without a permit and tags, poachers are _shot on sight_ and given no other means of jury. Brutal, but effective, and along with conservation and breeding programs many near-extinct species were brought back from the brink of eternal death and are seeing a sort of renaissance in terms of numbers after The Omen War.

In Africa, because of the massive amounts of elephants, ivory is sold in somewhat limited numbers (making demand high but supply scarce, but the thorough anti-poaching laws and fatal punishment for being caught keeps poachers from attempting at the precious ivory. Ontop of the multi-ton _giant_ with teeth growing from its face would be _very_ ticked at you for shooting at it. But that's not as painfully thorough as a bullet tearing grey matter from one's skull. Usually.)

The African Alliance was the first of many anti-poaching pro-conservation states to herald the beginning of a renewed love in nature.

To some, it was ironic that many of those fighting _for_ the conservation and anti-poaching were _hunters._ The hunters didn't care for irony when there were animals to keep from going extinct and poachers to make extinct.

And mines to clean up.

During WW2, an ungodly amount of landmines were deployed, creating hellish gardens of death in once (relatively) peaceful areas.

The African Anti-Poaching Committee trawled over these 'Devils Gardens' to try and clean as many mines as possible. People, elephants and other animals, all of them would fall prey to these random plates of death buried in the soil.

The AAPC was the harbinger of other, anti-poaching groups that spawned all through-out the world.

From the Americas, all through out Europe and Asia and all around the world, Poachers were in essence declared public enemy number one and conservation of species close to extinction or in a worrisome state were set to breeding programs and hunting of them was treated similarly to that in Africa: Justice by bullet.

Now, multiple species (land, sea and air) are thriving and, with smart and rather strict laws in place, will continue to do so. No matter how many colonies they make, the Terrans figure they only have _one_ home.

* * *

Wartime horror:

During the First Contact War, General Abbot and other generals ordered the use of gas canisters on the Turian invaders. The reasoning for this being a legitimate one: The Others _will not_ eat bodies that've been killed by gas.

A bad taste in their mouth? Dislike the gas? No one's sure, but they just won't eat them, so while a gruesome evil, it's a _necessary_ one should The Others become rampant.

With this is weapons like the Trench Sweeper Autoshot, a belt-fed automatic, buck-and-ball shotgun used in close quarters to terrorize the enemy, or the Firebug flamethrower, or the chainsaw attachments for tanks (granted, the chainsaws are for _clearing trees_ , but can be used on _infantry_ and light vehicles. Diamond tipped blades do wonders against flesh. Eeugh.) or other, horrific weapons.

The reason for this is there's no _real law against them_. There's no law, but the fact of _deploying_ them let alone _having_ them is often reason enough for others to talk ill of and wish awful things upon you. And do so in kind.

* * *

Magic, Mages and The Others:

The greater amount of Terrans _know_ magic exists. They know mages exist. They know that there're people that can conjure flame from their fingertips, speak to animals, and many other magical talents and most have simply accepted that it's a thing.

Mages are taught in organizations, Mage Academies, to control their talent and _not_ fly off the handle, summon something from tartarus and be spoken ill of in the village. Not a fun thing, ya see.

In general, people'd just rather mages stay away a bit. They accept they exist, but are still scared of them.

Mages are all well and good, they're _people_ after all, but The Others are something entirely different.

Don't use ouija boards. Just don't do it.

The Others is the name for those behind the veil, the barrier between mundane and supernatural, which again many _know_ of, but the fact that they're there is too much for many to handle, or they cope with it with fantasy equivalences.

The Others, despite being portrayed (partly correctly) as vicious, unending wretches from seven dimensions of hell, aren't all bad. There are those that are _powerful_ and _merciful_. These Others _despise_ killing, despise war, despise malicious intent and don't _want_ to harm anyone but will if pressed. These could, roughly, be equated to angels that halt a bad decision, stop a killing blow to a defenseless opponent, stop the massacre of villages, or give extra time for you to avoid the pendulum blade screaming at your heels.

The Others so often seen are, in essence, _rats_. Scavengers, picking at what they can while they can, and attacking in force if the veil rips enough.

* * *

Mythical creatures:

Every culture has _some_ form of mythical creature that either haunts the dark or stalks in the daylight or delivers fish on a platter to poor homes.

But these're just mythical beasts, fantasy creatures.

..

right?

Not necessarily. Humans have incredible imagination, but all the mythical beasts found in multiple cultures is based in fact. This fact being that the veil that holds apart the Mundane and the Supernatural isn't a perfect border. It can bend, tear, break, or simply lift and let something through. Or, the creatures have always been there and just stayed hidden.

Werewolves, The Kraken, flying beasts hunting the skies, big foot, other monsters, aren't just fantastical things thought of because someone ate some form of drug and are huddled on the floor talking about how some gov'ment's gonna come and take their babies.

The reason why, in the modern day, they're not seen as much is because Humanity (and Mechanoids with them) have become dangerous to them they've hidden themselves away from Humans, some trying to blend themselves in, some even trying to _help_ humanity defend itself from others of they're own kind, or from other supernatural/mythological creatures.

Humans have, to most, become something of an apex predator. Kill one, twenty crop up and find _some_ way to root you out, stomp you into the ground, and likely make mince meat out of you while using your skin as a coat and bones as broth or art.

They're still there, if you look hard enough. Especially in the oceans. Dive deep enough and you'll find something hungry and angry that you've come into its home.

Can't promise you'll come back.

* * *

Spirits, Ghosts, Mechanical and Organic, Magic:

Spirits have many names. Spectres, ghosts, living impaired, revenant, wight, draugr, and many many more.

A spirit belonging to a Human (or Animals, in some cases) will become tied to a place, a person, or an object after a particularly violent or sudden death. The reason being in the former is that their misery has so left an imprint on the place in which they died that they become apart of it. Their misery holds them there, unable to move on, unless exorcised by a religious official (doesn't _really_ matter what religion he/she belongs to. However, the religion of the deceased is usually more successful.) and allowed to move on.

In the latter case, the reason is that _they don't know they're dead._ Ghosts of sudden deaths _truly_ don't belive themselves dead and simply don't know to move on because they're unaware of their physical passing.

These spirits often become poltergeists, noisy ghosts, because they want attention. Imagine trying to get the attention of a loved one or a dear friend and them ignoring you. Screaming at them "Listen to me! See me!" but failing. Over. And Over. And over again.

So, for these spirits, the only way for them to get the attention they crave for _just a moment's recognition_ is to bang on the walls, smash pans, or scream into a person's dreams and, in the process, appear _demonic_. As experiences can color a person's living spirit, a dead person's spirit can be _warped_ by their experience and lack of contact and can appear to be a twisted mockery of what they once were.

Some spirits can be _seen_ , wether this be due to the viewer's own ability or a particularly powerful spirit manifesting themself in a form recognizable to the viewer.

Some spirits manage to find their bodies after death.

These spirits are where creatures like Draugar or Revenants come from, vengeful monsters come to terrorize the living (Or, in some cases, guard a place or being), with Revenants being those that found their bodies after death and, in fury of their passing, come back to terrorize the living.

Draugar (plural form of draugr) are specifically Nordic monsters that are created from people whom were particularly nasty in life. Greedy, vicious or in general person you wouldn't want to identify with that wants to continue their attitude after death. Draugar, land and sea, are said to be as strong as oxen and capable of changing their shape at will. They smell of rotten corpses and, in the case of sea Draugar, wet hair and seaweed.

Draugar spread disease, create darkness in the light, and are bringers of death and pestilence.

Draugar, unlike Revenants, are capable of creating _other_ Draugr by infecting a living person (or, in some cases, _animal_ ) with a touch and/or killing with a tainted weapon.

Not all spirits are malicious.

For example, machines created by Humans and Mechanoids are often described as having soul, personality or characteristic unique to them and are given names, referred to as either a he or she.

This isn't just a fandom.

It's true. The love, care, time, money, blood, sweat and tears put into machines of any complexity imbues the machine (such as cars or other vehicles) with a spirit. This spirit could be bitchy, it could be loving, it could even be indifferent of your existance in the greater space of the universe.

For example, The Alliance of Terra's military branches name their vehicles and weapons such as _Mercy_ , whom by much of the crew is said to care for them, assist them, and by sheer determination of will _fail_ to fall to durress and respond to words, touch, or emotions of her crew.

They're not incorrect in this assessment. _Mercy_ is a veteran from the _second_ world war. She was, originally, a Sherman tank used by Captain Edward Bishop, a Blackwatch operative that fought against the Thule society and other occult opponents.

After the war, _Mercy_ sat unused and resting.

When the first Dreadnaught class of starship was proposed, _Mercy_ was the first one. Her body was transplated, imbued into the ship and eventually _absorbed_ by the new body. Now, _Mercy_ serves as a proud, long standing veteran of the Alliance.

Mechanoids, it's theorized, are also cases of this, as they don't really have any _programming_ built into them. They just are.

* * *

(Well, did my best, but I'm sick and I'm also hungry. Hope you enjoy, I'll see what I can do later.)


	21. UpdateQuestion: Suggestions?

I'm currently attempting to write a new chapter, but sickness won't go away. Help. What would you like to see?


	22. Homesick

Valern sat in his chambers, eyes glued to his terminal as he studied the various informational packets the Alliance had sent the Council in hopes of _relatively_ equal footing. The Alliance massively interested the Salarian councilor for multiple reasons.

One being that, despite coming from _one_ planet, Humans were so painfully _diverse_. Travel fourty minutes one way and most likely you'll meet a dozen or more people from a dozen or more countries with a dozen or more _counties_ and so on and so forth.

Then there was their technology. Completely independent of element zero, Eezo being regarded with _passing_ interest, and their knowledge of the protheans ('what-theans?' they'd asked even!) was almost non-existant. But their technology not only _worked_ , but in some ways surpassed Council technology.

Plasma casters borne on infantry power armoed frames. Seeming _teleportation_ , how far he couldn't be sure, but the fact they had it anyway was something in and of itself.

Vyrillium. A wonder material, it was described. Founded by a long since past (Were they?) occult organization called the 'Thule Society', focused on occult dealings and either worshipping or simply revering 'Vyril'. Valern hoped to get more information on that.

But Vyrillium seemed to power their ships, treat their armor (hence why _Mercy_ was so damned durable), and allow technologies like teleportation to be feasible, allow FTL without use of Mass Effect relays. These things worried Valern something awful. A game changer, should the Alliance decide to go to war with the council.

Pushing that worrying thought aside, Valern focused on another worrying subject. The Others.

Images of the vampires, Homo Malus, descriptions of their physiology and their attitudes, their caste system. Images were shown, but something in his mind _didn't_ want to accept that they were even there. He could _vaguely_ make out shapes. Imp-like monsters, some. Others resembled frogs with vicious teeth. Others were the size of a man, oily skin and claws long and covered in gore. All of them were in darkness, no matter how much he tried to enhance and brighten the image, he just _couldn't_ get a good view.

Valern wasn't particularly sure he wanted to.

His mind began to haunt with the images, trying at the same time to ignore it and imagine it.

In the darkness of his room, he didn't feel safe.

He was being watched.

He turned on the light with his omni-tool, feeling the sensation fade slightly.

He's safe in the light. Right?

* * *

Closing on a month or more after Abbot and Logan's visit to the Citadel the Alliance dedicated some of its treasurey to credits to assist with trade with the other races which, surprisingly, came quickly. While met by Alliance military ships at the Mass Relays (Still humorously called 'Void Forks' in the giant salad that is the galaxy), the merchant ships were, eventually, allowed in after thorough checks and fair warnings.

Shanxi was the first, and major, colony visited by the merchants.

Met with apprehension at first, the alien merchants wether they be Asari, Turian, Salarian, _Volus_ which behind closed doors were the butt of a few jokes, and the odd Elcor eventually found themselves fairly welcome and massively interested by the _thoroughly_ alien people.

Buildings were slightly patch work with new brick and mortar, roads were repaired as best they could be. Construction crews blocking off destroyed streets, dangerous areas cordoned off by blue uniformed men and women, human and mechanoid, guarding areas bordered by yellow danger tape.

"Honey and bread, canned vegies, come and get 'em for yer larder!"

One alien that stood out from the others, due to his environmental suit which was colored dark blue and grey in places, walked about the merchant stalls ignoring the whispered insults of 'suit rat' from the familiar races while he was asked or offered foodstuffs from the new race, the humans. He had to admit, they were strange in just how _different_ some of them were from eachother.

Skin colors ranging from light to dark and in between, hair colors of a similar range, most of them wearing either overalls dusted with dirt from fields or wearing checkered shirts or dresses in the case of women.

A strange people, but he couldn't argue that they didn't ridicule him for being a Quarian.

Yet.

Granted, he got some raised brows from how his legs bent oddly in comparison to theirs, but for the most part they just regarded him as a foreigner, an oddity.

But the amount of synthetics around him made his skin crawl under the suit. _His_ people create synthetics, lose most of their people and 300 years of isolation on ragtag ships as nomads just barely scraping by. _These_ people create synthetics, the Council does nothing, they retain their home and independence from the Council.

A feeling of resentment crept into him, one he tried to suppress, as he takes a seat on a wood and iron bench and activates his omni-tool. Better safe than sorry was his reasoning as he booted up his hacking routines.

He was thankful for the modifications he'd made to it, making the interface essentially one-sided. No one'd be able to see its display unless they were behind and leaning down.

The omni-tool's display and routines ran quickly as his three fingered hands danced over the display.

His jaw dropped when he saw the Mechanoids _didn't show up_ on his omni-tool.

Running it again and editing it a bit on the fly, his omni-tool _did_ pick them up but not in any respect that would indicate hackable code. Try, try again.

A third time, the omni-tool showed the Mechanoids were _obviously_ mechanical, clue's in the name, but that there was simply nothing to pick up. Computing equipment was detected running within them, along with other mechanical parts, but there was simply nothing _hackable_.

 _'Incompatible parts, maybe,'_ He reasoned as he ran it _a fourth_ time.

Nothing.

Nothing that would latch, nothing that would catch the feelers his omni-tool sent out, nothing that would indicate he could hack the synthetics incase they went rogue.

Nothing.

Feeling at odds with his surroundings, the Quarian made to get up.

"You okay, kid?" A distinctly mechanical voice asked him from his right, causing him to plop back down on the seat and look up at who asked it. A gynoid was watching him, a look of curiosity on her face which was distinctly organic what with the synthetic flesh over her face and other parts of her body, impact jelly underneath giving the illusion of fat. She wore either a wig or implant of black hair tied back into a pony tail. The synthetic flesh was colored a cool grey-blue. She wore a burgundy skirt and white shirt with a pair of black shoes on her mechanical feet. The skirt seemed to be cinched at the waist with a leather belt.

He stuttered, feeling quite uncomfortable at her close proximity. And existance.

Seeming to sense his discomfort of her being there, she took a step back. "Sorry, I know you aliens are scared of my kind." She crossed her arms over her chest "You seemed like you were trying to find something?" She questioned with a tilt of her head, causing her hair to bob slightly with the movement.

"I'm fine," he said rushed, uncomfortable with the synthetic so close. "I'm just nervous in crowds." The gynoid looked up and saw..no crowds. Not anywhere _near_ , anyhow. The gynoid shook her head "If you say so, but you look like someone outta water." The gynoid shrugged and walked off, clearly not persuaded.

He sighed leaning his elbows forward onto his knees and shook his head. If it wasn't for the pilgrimage, he wouldn't likely _be here_. But he had a duty to his people, a home to come back to.

The passing roar of a diesel truck made the Quarian look up with wide eyes as it rumbled and rolled down the street, the nose of the azure blue truck a rolling shape from the fenders and into the hood, with another bulge that tapered into the greater form of the hood toward the windshield peaked with a silver or steel statuette of a woman with representations of the wind passing behind her as she dashed through the air.

Hearing the familiar rumble and growl of engines and machinery made the Quarian's frowning face break into a smile.

Maybe it wasn't so bad.

* * *

The Turian defectees, with varying degrees of acceptance ranging from welcomed with open arms to held at arm's length with a bayonet extended, were given a shelter to reside in for the time being. Being only recently _invaders_ of their planet, the Humans and Mechanoids weren't fully ready to accept them. Not _all_ of them, anyhow.

The bunkhouse was, by human standards, spartan (which she learned was a _human_ phrase as well, named after an ancient civilization) but by Turian military standards quite luxurious. Each cot had a comfy mattress, a pillow, a blanket, space for bags or boxes underneath, and the room had A/C which made the Turians quite excited.

It was somewhat large, with multiple rooms that had no walls in each. The cots were in view of eachother, with barely a few breaks for the support pillars keeping the roof up, and had light colored wooden flooring.

Theadra lay in her bunk, fingers hooked into the chainlink frame of the bunk above her in order to give herself something to focus on. Other Turians rest in their bunks as well, some asleep and some just laying. The sheer absoluteness of their previous decision to defect _just_ now coming onto them.

 _They'd done it_.

They defected.

But a lifetime under rule of the Hierarchy, and losing all the people they knew because of it, started to creep up on them. Theadra, for all her hate of the Hierarchy's rampant wars, was one of those that, while happy, began to feel homesick.

She thought about her sister, Jubia and Jubia's husband Servius. Jubia was expecting. Excited that she was going to be a mother, and Theadra an aunt.

Now, she'd never see her neice or nephew. Never see her sister again. Servius would despise her defection from the Hierarchy, a real hardass C-Sec Turian to whom Loyalty was paramount.

With a sigh, Theadra unhooked her fingers and turned onto her side and wrapped an arm around herself best she could. Another Turian looked over at her, a female Turian whom'd lost an eye in the same engagement that Theadra lost most of her squad in. Altana. She had dark purple skin and white markings on her face, colored over her nose and along the tips of her mandibles.

"You too?" Altana asked with a sad smile.

"Yep," Theadra's head wumfed onto the soft pillow she was given as she tried to push away the thoughts of her home and when last she'd seen Jubia and Servius. "Sister."

"Brother for me," Altana nodded and, careful of her bandage, turned as well "Gardener on the Citadel. When I told him about the war, he said to stay alive. I suppose he sould've told me to come back." Altana shook her head. "I don't regret defecting, I don't think, but I wish I could see my brother again." Theadra nodded at this.

"Sister, pregnant. Gonna be an aunt sometime soon. Now I'll never know the kid." Altana winced with a frown at this.

"Sorry."

"Me too."

The two turians lay in their bunks, Altana eventually said goodnight and turned over to sleep.

Theadra turned over onto her back, staring into the underside of the top bunk, and sighed.

She hated to admit it, but she was homesick.

* * *

(Short one, I know, but I'm currently goin' through some times. Thanks for your patience everyone. More to come as I can)


	23. Codex: Werebeasts

To the surprise of many, there _is_ a difference between a Lycan and a Werebeast/Werewolf.

A werewolf/werebeast is a man (as in _human_ ) that transforms into a humanoid wolf/beast, this is done at _any_ time but the Full-Moon is _impossible_ to stop. Werewolves are the most common werebeast, with Werebears being slightly rarer, and other creatures moreso.

Lycans are _humanoid wolves_ that have no ability to shift. The majority of which are Werewolves that have given into their beastly form so completely that they no longer are whom they once were. They have no knowledge of their past life (minus some instinctual knowledge) and, in essence, are erased from knowledge of others as they have given up their humanity.

Lycans are, more often than not, feral beasts with their minds set on the strict pack-mentality of wolves, living day to day, breeding, and defending territory. They do, however, have some branches within them that live a tribal existance. Leave them alone, in general you'd never know them to even exist.

Lycans, due to their relation to a werebeast described below, have been named Homo Canidis.

Lycans have _no choice_ but to be exposed to Human sight, thus they hide in deep forests and are rarely seen (unless particularly cheeky, looking at you Beast of Bray Road), let alone interacted with. The few humans who _do_ know of their existance live in a sort of neighborly silence. Neither bothers the other, so long as both can live.

All werebeasts, wether on Earth or other planets, are tied to the moon, Luna. When the full moon shines on earth, all werebeasts transform.

During these transformations, depending on sheer force of will and how experienced the werebeast is, this transformation can range from slightly inconvenient to biblically apocalyptic for the were. Many werebeasts carry a 'moon watch' that's linked to Luna's phases that tells them when their transformation is coming and when to lock themselves in a box.

A very durable, preferably steel and iron encased box.

Just as Luna is their controller so too is, for many, their savior.

Werebeasts (werewolves, mostly) howl to the moon for multiple reasons. Communicating their change to others, letting out the equivalent of a pleasured sigh (as finally shifting to their beastial form is the equivalent of a massage after a week's long labor), or announcing a hunt.

Werebeasts _know_ Humans and Mechanoids, despite being considerabley _weaker_ , are _not_ stupid enough to hunt very easily. Ontop of that, their weapons hurt like hell.

On Earth, there's plenty of surplus food to hunt, so rarely do Humans (They can't eat mechanoids for obvious reasons) encounter Werebeasts. Those that do are unlucky, or dumb enough to walk into the wrong neighborhood (insert expletive here) and even then, likely to just be scared so bad they'll forget it.

Werewolves are the most _common_ werebeast, but their stronger, more individualist cousins the Werebears are also found around the world.

Werebears are much larger than Werewolves, far stronger, and have sharper senses than their more populace cousins. Thankfully for humans, Werebears are rather peaceful and are omnivores. Alot of humans, when the full moon comes around, will leave offerings of berries and other foodstuffs so as to stop _themselves_ from becoming meals.

Werebears, being the stronger of the two, can _easily_ take down Werewolves in a one-on-one but due to the pack nature of Werewolves and Lycans, this is rarely the case and having six to a dozen werewolves/lycans bearing down on you (No pun intended maybe) is, even for most Werebears, too much to handle.

Like Lycans, Werebears (The 'Lycan' versions of which are called Homo Arctus) can sometimes grow into a tribal existance. These Bear Tribes are, it's been observed, based around a 'Alpha Bear', the Chieftain, that rules over the others.

Other werebeasts exist, albeit are more rare, with some _aquatic_ werebeasts being in existance but _extremely_ rare.

Lycans, Werebeasts, Homo Arctus and Werebears are all weak to silver. Cut them with it, stab them with it, shoot them with it, or smash them with it and they'll suffer _grievous_ wounds if not death. Silver halts their regenerative abilities in the area afflicted (in the case of bullets, anyway) and keeps it from regenerating _too_ quickly. Werebeasts, Lycans and others can _touch_ silver with no problem, even wear it. They just can't be cut, stabbed, smashed or shot with it.

Lycans tend to get confused on Halloween, the poor things. Can't seem to understand the little morsels walking about _aren't_ jack-o-lanterns. For most houses wolfsbane is a popular plant to deter the creatures (and their Were cousins) as Wolfsbane is to Werebeasts (Werewolves and Lycans, atleast) what Garlic is to Homo Malus.

Poisonous and paralytic.

Werewolves and Homo Canidis both can _instantly_ recognize Wolfsbane and will avoid it as best as possible. Should they injest it, be shot or stabbed with it, it proves _quickly_ fatal. Thus, they avoid it as much as possible and seeing multiple _towns_ with it displayed sends a clear message: Bugger off.

Some houses don't hang it up, wether because they simply don't care, don't have the plant, or are somewhat accepting of the beasts.

In more paranoid neighborhoods this can be tantamount to letting the creatures in.

Thing is, no one'd know if that's the truth, let alone the creatures _coming in_ , unless a Lycan or changed Werebeast stared them down and asked for a cuppa sugar.

Most houses, however, tend to stock a gun and atleast a case of silver bullets (in the style of Blackwatch bullets, a thin copper sheath over the silver projectile that melts off after leaving the barrel) just in case.

Nearly _every_ locale has its own stories of man-beasts, some of them correct and some of them outlandish even by supernatural standards. Either way, take a few silvers with you when out hiking.

Werebeasts tend to hold the characteristics of their human body after changing. Height, frame, build, hair and eye color, scars, etc. which can make it easier for keen-eyed individuals to pick out a werebeast should they get sight of parallel markings on the beast to the human.

* * *

(Ayyyyyy werebeast dossier.)


	24. Hang

"Instructors Caius, Hercus, Meteria, Livitina, and Heribius. Your failed teaching of four-thousand-two-hundred-and-fifty-three Turian soldiers caused mass defections from the Hierarchy and the Hierarchy's military, causing the deaths of many Turian officers and loss of the planet of Shanxi in the Relay 314 Incedent and impacting the Navy's ability to rightly dispense justice on a race breaking council law. As the strong-arm of the Hierarchy, and thus the Council, this failure to instill proper discipline in your now-defected soldiers caused loss of the battle, _numerous_ Turian casualties, personnel and material, caused the Council to allow these beings to continue unabashed and stained the honor of the Hierarchy, the Council, and your fellow Turians." Primarch Ilixus stated the crimes with an authoritarian tone of dissapointment.

The instructors, teachers, drill sergeants, the ones that taught new recruits all they needed to now, _failed_ when their students defected.

The instructors in question stood over a wooden platform, a hatch under their nude feet, as a rope extended over each of them and held snug around their necks. Before them were crowds of Turians standing elevated from the criminals, camera drones recording and broadcasted the coming execution Palaven and colony wide.

They could feel the eyes burning into them, shame roiling within them, as they awaited their sentence.

"How do you plead?"

"Guilty." The instructors said, loud and clear, as they held their hands behind them and stood at attention.

"The sentence for your crime is to hang by the neck until dead." Primarch Ilixus nodded his head to a skull-face painted Turian wearing black cloth whom grabbed the handle in silence.

The crowd never stopped glaring.

The Instructors never objected.

When they fell, not all of them died quickly.

They were forced to struggle to death in the eyes of the crowd, of the Turian colonies, for their crime.

* * *

Jubia watched the proceedings on the holoscreen with a hand on her belly and one over her mouth. She watched with tears trying to escape her dark blue eyes. Those instructors each had a hand in her sister's training. Her sister that defected.

She was unsure that she'd ever see her sister again, Spirits she could hope, but she was doubtful. When the last of the instructors died, all of their tongues forced from their mouth by the pressure, Jubia turned off the screen.

She didn't want to see more.

Her husband's warm, comforting hands held her shoulders as massaged them softly, a sigh escaping him "It's for the best," he leaned down and pressed his forehead to the top of hers and held there for a moment before walking off.

For the best.

Jubia doubted that, sincerely.

* * *

Theadra and the other defectees had a deeply somber attitude to them after news of the executions met them. Many wondered, doubted even, that their decision was the right one to do. Sure, they defected, now they were atleast _relatively_ accepted among the Terrans, but still they'd left _everything_ they once knew and lived with. Theadra herself missed her instructors, now dead, and missed her sister and _surprisingly_ even Jubia's husband _hard assed military turian_ he was. The Terrans made them feel welcome, for the most part, many of the soldiers they once fought showing them around and helping them to get used to the new world, new culture.

Wasn't easy, but no one thought it would be.

For Theadra, one thing that helped to make the stay easier was the presence of Lukas. Lukas, despite once being her enemy, had quickly warmed up to the defectees and had shown a number of them to various parts of the local area. Not all defectees were in one area, they were spread all through out the world of Shanxi, but the number near Lukas' unit, in the town of Eiswald, were quickly learning the fact that Terrans love loud engines.

It helped, she had to admit, when he took her in a vehicle called a 'Jeep' and they ripped down the path in it. She had to hold on for dear life, but it was worth it when they turned in a 'donut' and were joined by other riders in their own 'jeeps.'

Granted, Lukas and the other Terran drivers had to pay for it with P.T. and atleast one of them with latrine duty, but it was worth it according to the lot of them.

Just recently she was shown to a diner, with red and white checkered floor, with similarly colored booths with the sides being red and the middle a broad white. There were one or two accounts of Turians being incapable of eating human food, but for the most part they were able to eat it and, while getting less nutrients from it, had no doubt about it that they liked alot of it.

Theadra was also showed to 'pop', as Lukas called it, and found herself simialarly infatuated with it.

She smiled when she, sitting on a bench, took a drink of VitaPop and held her thumb over the opening of the shatter-proof glass bottle.

"Hey there," Lukas said from behind her, returning with a pair of red, plastic lattice trays in an oval shape with red and white checkered paper, a long sausage held between a bun split down the middle with one of them, in his right hand, covered by a red and yellow goop. The other was barren, but had little dishes of toppings next to it.

"Back with the 'dogs," Lukas said as he handed the barren wiener to Theadra. She held the lattice tray with a look of curiosity and a raised brow before looking at Lukas "What are these?" She asked.

"Hot dogs," Lukas answered biting into his with a hiss as his was still steaming hot " _very_ hot dogs." Theadra shook her head with amusement as she tested some of her toppings. Some tasted good, others not. Lukas explained what they were with words like 'horse raddish', 'relish', 'ketchup', 'mustard' and others.

Choosing her toppings, she ate the hot dog with minimal mouth pain, enjoying Lukas' own fumbling of the painful sausage.

"First time eating it and I still did better than you," Theadra said, trying to take her mind off the executions.

"Oh bite me," Lukas hissed after he blew on the hot dog "I like hot dogs."

"You like food in general." Theadra grinned at Lukas who nodded with a "Mhmm!" after he took another bite.

"Very much so. How do you like it?"

"It's new."

"Spice of life and all that."

"If you say so," Theadra said with a slight smile, an edge to her voice that she prayed Lukas wouldn't pick up on.

"What's wrong?" She cursed the spirits for Lukas' perception. She didn't answer right away, causing Lukas to look at her with the hot dog half in his mouth creating an unflatteringly funny image.

"Our instructors were executed for our defecting," Theadra answered, holding the tray with both hands as she was quite interested in the colors of the horse raddish. while Lukas coughed a choke, thumping his chest twice before he swallowed.

"Christ alive, seriously? Why them?" Lukas asked horrified.

"They taught us, we defected. To the Hierarchy, they failed all Turians because of our defection."

"God Theadra," Lukas said with a frown, swallowing down the rest of his hot dog and setting the tray to the side "I'm sorry." He turned a bit more to her, her eyes ficking up to him as she gave a sad smile.

"So am I."

For a moment, neither said anything. Theadra for her sorrow at the loss of her instructors, Lukas for his empathy of her situation.

"I don't know if I'll be able to talk to my sister again," Theadra said turning her head fully to Lukas with a sad smile on her face "I'm not sure if she'd want to." Lukas' expression made her shake her head. "She married a military man. I'm not sure she'd want to speak to me after my defection."

"She's your sister, of course she would, military be damned."

"I'm not sure how right you are," Theadra shook her head "You don't know my people."

"No, but if your people are so up their own ass that family means nothing in the light of defection then something somewhere went screwed." Lukas said with a chuckle "Very."

Theadra snorted softly at that.

"Come on, some time I'll see if I can't get permission to get you some conjugal visits or something. Where she live?"

"Palaven."

"Awfuck well, that complicates things."

"Her husband was thinking of joining C-Sec before we invaded," Theadra shrugged "Hopefully they'll move there and we can visit, but I'm doubtful."

"That's defeatist attitude, damn you. Somehow, some way, I'll make it happen. I'm Human, we're nothing if not headstrong."

"Oh I know," Theadra chuckled with a smile "I've seen it. Especially from you."

"It's apart of my charm," Lukas grinned at her "And Humanity's charm."

Lukas' grin fell some when Theadra, after seting down her tray, wrapped him in a tight hug and squeezed. Lukas, after his surprise faded, smiled and gave back a tight hug. "Thank you. Even if you don't get me a visit with Jubia, thank you. So very much." Theadra said, tone unsure.

"I will, somehow, some way, come hell or high water. Or another invasion."

Theadra snorted.

The two of them stayed that way for a moment before releasing, taking back their trays, and left to go on their day.

Human hard-headedness won the battle today. Hopefully, it'd win the war.

* * *

(News that'll excite Observer, I'm likely to dedicate the next few chapters to these two. Hope you enjoyed. Yay actual chapters worth a fuck. Thank you, sincerely, to Pacer287 for his insight on Turians! I appreciate it, man, will try and keep the Turians to actually _being feckin' Turians_ this story. Also, thank you _all_ for 20K VIEWS! I'd jump around (jump jump jump around) if I could get off the ground, ha)


	25. Ozzy's Dive

_'Gotta get the kids, gotta get the kids!'_ These thoughts raced through Osbourne 'Ozzy' Kostas's head as he raced down the smoke choked hall of one of the many Hellenic schools settled in Neo Athens, on a planet settled by the Hellenic League named Sparti. Sparti, sporting a huge population of Hellenic peoples, especially Hellenic Pagans, became a sort of 'Crystal Spires and Togas' planet to many, valuing martial prowess and intelligence.

Schools, huge schools, held children in their halls of learning as teachers dispensed knowledge upon the younglings.

However, they were popular places for Pirates to attack.

The Terrans, though prospering and populace, had no shortage of pirates, bandits and thieves. There were always some who saw it easier to _take_ rather than _make_.

Schools, when they couldn't get what they wanted, were popular targets to terrorize the populace into submission.

Ozzy's rubber boots squeaked against the tile floor, his once white and blue uniform stained by soot and smog and a splatter of blood from a recently deceased pirate whom thought it a smart idea to fight an angry giant with a fiercely protective side to him. Looking in the rooms as he ran, almost all of them were completely devoid of the once smiling children and happy teachers that would reside there.

All but one room.

Turning into it with a jump, Ozzy hollered at the teacher who, with her students, was huddled in a corner as a burning beam blocked their path.

 _'Get. Them. Out.'_ A voice, it wasn't his this he could tell, ordered into his head. An amulet he wore around his neck, the face of an owl, burned a bit as if trying to spur him into action.

He need not be told twice.

Ozzy, uncaring for his own safety, grabbed the burning, crackling orange-lit beam and hefted it onto his shoulders and pressed upwards with his arms stock straight and legs wide and load bearing. "Go!" The teacher, thanking Ozzy with a frightened, sobbing look on her face, ushered her children outward past Ozzy and between his legs.

They were almost all out when the room's roof caved.

Screaming, pain, and ungodly terror filled the room as the beam, joined by the plaster, iron and wood of the other supports, crashed onto Ozzy's head. The entire left side was almost completely smashed, yet he held on tight and hefted the roof with shakey arms and legs, a smile on his blood soaked face as his one good eye fixed on the ghost faced children.

"I've got it, go!" The children, after more encouragement, ran from the room.

His amulet continued to burn.

 _'Not today.'_

The roof crashed again, the fire claiming it.

His job complete, Ozzy dropped it and stumbled from the room. Somehow, with half his head and brain smashed and his energy quickly being sapped, he made it.

Not far, but he made it.

Dropping to his knees as the school, a temple of learning, crashed around him.

Lifting what remained of his head Ozzy caught sight of a black, skeletal hand lifting from the floor before him.

 _Thanatos._

Ozzy sighed, ready to accept his passing. He'd done his job and the children were safe.

A light encompassed him, a shield extending before him as an arm wrapped around his bloody body.

 _'Not today!'_

The hand, shaking with anger, reached before descending again.

Ozzy looked at the shield, recognizing it's design from the art he'd seen all his life, seen in the temples.

 _Aegis._

 _Athena._

 _'Not today.'_

With that, he blacked out.

* * *

It was many, many years before Ozzy awoke again. After nearly a decade working on his body, after nearly dying multiple times, Hellenic scientists managed to revive him with cybernetics. Compelled to, by forces unseen, they replaced the left side of his head with a cybernetic half-brain, doing their best to model it after Ozzy's own with the best of their information.

Between prayer, many a sleepless night crunching numbers, and much currency dispended, Ozzy soon became the first man to be returned from death.

To some of his own community, minusing the teachers and children he saved, he was seen as unnatural. Hades was to claim him, as he claims all dead men.

To the scientists, to the teachers, to even some priests, it wasn't to be so. Ozzy would live.

The left side of his head was replaced, his left arm, and much of the left side of his chest and his full left leg was replaced.

He would live.

A Greek Frankenstein's monster.

* * *

Ozzy was suited up in his diving gear, a power suit large enough to fit him, with his huge excavator's claw attached to his left arm. Its large jaws closed and ready for use. Testing it a few times, Ozzy was satisfied when its hydraulics hissed causing the claw to open then close.

A helmet attached to his head, styled after old diving suits with a large porthole in the front, gave him a wide view of the area round him. Currently on a large excavator ship in the middle of one of Shanxi's oceans and ready for the job ahead, scavenging Turian vessels from the depths, Ozzy said prayers to Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, and Poseidon, God of the Oceans. Offerings made on a make-shift shrine he'd set up the day before for this very job, Ozzy was ready for what was ahead.

In the captain's nest, he was given the all-clear.

He stepped up on the port side of the boat, checking to make sure his airtanks were full and satisfied to see a green light, he jumped off.

Deep, deep, deeper he went.

Sound drowned out, all but that of the water rushing around him, and finally the thud as he landed on a shelf.

He'd go down slowly, gradually, and come up the same way. Cybernetic though he was, he could still get the bends. He'd nearly died once, he didn't need a repeat.

His footsteps slow and plodding, constricted by the water, Ozzy continued down the great stone shelf as fish and other creatures, some native and some not, inspected him curiously. Some already knew him, he'd come out here numerous times, and the ones that knew him swam closer.

A smile crept over his face

He was always at home in the ocean, wether it be on Sparti, Shanxi or Earth. The water was a second home for him.

His journey through the new world of the water took him deep enough that he actually needed his headlamp, the bright white light cutting through the darkness like a sabre.

Finding the hulks, Ozzy began to clear the area of obstructions. Rocks and other debris were cleared out, excavator claw giving him an unrelenting grip on the obstructions.

The Turian ships were _destroyed_ utterly, burnt hulks and husks of what once were proud vessels of a foreign navy now destined to be scrap metal for the Alliance's material efforts.

Waste not, want not.

As he cleared the obstacles, he felt he was being watched.

This wasn't uncommon, he _was_ being watched after all by Gods know how many creatures, but this was different.

His hair stood on end, though he ignored it, and kept at his work.

Walking under one of the hulks and pushing more obstacles out of the way, Ozzy felt the sensation again a little later.

He turned, gazing out into the darker shelves as sound met his audio receptors, which fed sound to his years.

It was black.

Pitch. Black.

It was there, he could feel it.

Whatever was watching him was out there, watching him.

Deep into that darkness peering, long he stood there, wondering, fearing.

And the abyss stared back.

* * *

(Well everyone I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I have a question I wanted to ask, on the behalf of the story. As I'm sure many of you have noticed, I've got alot on my plate with this story. Theadra and Lukas for example, The Blackwatch, etc. that I don't want to clutter up the story. So I wanted to ask, would you all like to see spin-offs that would tie into Visions that tackle certain character arcs? For example LukasXTheadra, or the Blackwatch's operations, etc. etc. Regardless of yes or no, shoot me a message or a review and tell me what you think.)

(Also, I'm doing my best to begin a diet (starting January First) so if my updates are slower, my apologies, as I'm juggling many a thing.)


	26. (Ignore this chapter, I am a fool)

Because I'm a fool for the ages, this chapter was the same as a later chapter. I apologize. Can't delete, it'll fuck everything up, so please skip onto the next chapter for the story. My apologies!


	27. Rastona

The sight of a Krogan was rather rare for any of the Council races, an intimidating sight at that. But for the Terrans, they had a daring 'Come at me' front to put up to the giant red Krogan that walked on Shanxi's terra firma. Like all aliens, the Terrans regarded Krogan with the same level of distrust. A war for a first contact tends to do that to a species, maybe they were being too harsh.

Moral dillema aside, the giant Krogan was admittedly impressed by the new species; both of them. A.I. was something even he wasn't sure was a smart idea, considering the Quarian's utter fuckup of a time with it, but considering Mechanoids and Humans regarded eachother as utterly normal they must be doing something right.

Weaponry was _not_ on sale for Aliens. Not by a long shot. 'Aliens not allowed', 'Fuck off Birds, Squid and Frogs', 'Terrans only', and other signs were up on gun shops in most territories (that _allowed_ the sale of guns in the first place that is) and any alien wanting entry was told to, in short and unoffensive terms, 'Go away.'

Wrex, while certainly interested in the weapons, found himself more wandering about the markets and towns of the Terrans, gauging them, inspecting them.

His huge, wide set eyes scanned the area around him for threats. Krogan, while certainly predatory, had evolved eyes on either side of their head like that of a herbivore rather than right up front like that of a Turian, Asari or even Salarian, the three of which were _obviously_ more predatory species by nature. Didn't stop Krogan from being any more or less predatory, infact the scales often tipped in favor of the former.

Coming up on a merchant, of what he could only guess were autos, who was standing against his building of red brick (more red brick, always red brick, why the red brick) and white mortar smoking a cigarette, he grunted deep when the Merchant caught sight of the giant. To his right was a pair of white metal doors. To his left, multiple garage doors were closed. The sounds of industry could be clearly heard behind the shutter doors. Welding, bolting and clanging.

The man wore a set of dark blue denims with dark brown boots, a grey T-Shirt which was stained with sweat and oil, and a thick leather apron over his front. The apron, likely once a lighter color, was now smudged and oily black. His skin was tanned and had the texture of leather, greying black hair covered his arms and crept onto his hands, up to his face which had a growing stubble of a beard colored salt-and-pepper. His face was deeply set and had the same features as a topographical map of Utah (Sexual encounter from a horror movie character not included nor known), eyes deeply set in the leathery face. His hair, dry and whispy like inky smoke, was tied lazily behind his head in an incredibly loose ponytail.

"You look like a snapping turtle fucked a T. Rex and beat the offspring with a branch off the ugly tree, what kind of hell hole you crawl out of?" Wrex took the man's measure with keen eyes, dark red oculi glaring and scanning over the man with an unhidden albeit small scowl on his saurian face.

"Tuchanka," Wrex's voice sounded like he guzzled gravel and sand for a living and drank molten metal to wash it down making the Human snort as he puffed the stick of tobacco wrapped in white paper. The smoke escaped his nose.

"Tonka truck," The human chuckled and watched the Krogan's confused and ticked expression. His own voice sounding like he either gargled sand and broken glass or frequently had encounters with something long and barbed. Or maybe it was the bundle of sticks he was smoking, Wrex couldn't be sure.

"You a merchant?" The man shrugged in response.

"Depends on who's asking," the man narrowed his eyes at Wrex suspiciously.

"Urdnot Wrex," Wrex stood at his full height as he came up on the man, who still seemed uninterested despite the multi-ton giant that just plodded upto him. Intimidation obviously wasn't going to work on him, which made Wrex chuckle inwardly. Finally, someone with spine.

"Alright, Urdnot Wrex," the Human flicked his cigarette at the floor and stamped it into the asphalt floor as he and Wrex came close enough to nearly headbutt eachother "What do you want, aside from a plastic surgeon?" Wrex's face was level with the man's, his hump huge and thus making him hunch over. Were it not for the hump, he'd be even taller than he already was.

"I want to look around, you Humans are a strange bunch of aliens and I thought I'd take a look at what vehicles you drive." Wrex omitted the part where 'tonka' sounded strangely like 'tomkah', a vehicle used by the Krogan like a transport and huge battlewagon. "Figure if you gave the birds something to worry about, you must be worth _some_ form of a damn." Wrex could smell the tobacco on the man's breath as he gave a wheezing belly deep laugh.

"Hope you know," the man said in between chuckles "We don't have anything that can handle a dinosaur let alone one as ugly as yourself." The man shrugged and opened a white door to his right and waved for Wrex to follow him, which Wrex did even as he kept his eyes out for any trouble.

The inside of the building, that Wrex had seen thus far, was a simple thing with a counter, a cash register, and a rubber mat with a pair of wooden benches opposite the counter and a tall machine with a coin slot and metal flap for a small door next to it, the machine had a transparent bubble ontop with a veritable rainbow of balls. "Sweet gum balls!" was the fancifully written signage over the face of the front of the bubble that had a cartoony gumball with a face smiling wide and eyes rolled off to the side in a "Oh, you!" expression.

Wrex shook his massive head, _'Strange aliens'_ he thought.

"Boss is in the back office, I'll get her and you can wait here," The man said not waiting for wrex to pipe in as he was handed a catalog "Some of the vehicles we offer. Have a look." The man walked out of the room leaving Wrex alone in the front office.

So, the man's boss was a woman. Something Wrex didn't expect, he thought the man _was_ the boss, but not an unpleasent one he supposed. He looked through the catalog, a paper magazine that was thick with pages and emblazoned with bright pictures and crisp descriptions.

Strange holding a physical catalog, rather than a hologram, Wrex fumbled with the magazine some before finding an easy way of holding it with his large, three fingered hands. The vehicles, he was surprised to find, weren't uniform unlike the hovercraft he'd find on the Citadel or, really, anywhere else. They all had a _base_ body, but were clearly set up for modification should the buyer decide to do so. As well, each car had a little asterisc next to them with 'End of catalogue Options' detailed at the top of the page.

Hot rods, trucks, daily drivers, all of the sort had Wrex interested. Then he found the table of contents, seeing all number of items.

While he wasn't planning on buying anything, _let alone did he have a license_ , he thought he might as well have a look for shits and giggles.

 _Industrial/heavy_.

Apparently, the human was having Wrex on when he said there were no vehicles that could handle a Krogan. As well, Wrex learned this garage was one of a number of others connected to a larger company which supplied most of the vehicles in the catalogue.

Terrans were apparently fans of large vehicles, because in the Industrial/Heavy tab were vehicles capable of carrying a few Krogan at most. With most Krogan weighing a _literal ton_ , this was something of a feat to Wrex for a species seemingly so primitive.

Some vehicles even resembled tomkahs. They were large, angular had multiple wheels, and were rugged beasts of locomotive power. Surprising even still to Wrex was that apparently even mechanized walkers were allowed, somewhat, as two legged and four legged versions were inlcuded. Granted, they were unarmored and their canopies were open and thus impossible to block fire, but still. They were allowed.

Strange bunch of people.

He smelled them before he saw them, a waft of engine oil and biodiesel that was already strong in the building became stronger with each passing half second as the two humans returned.

Wrex looked up from his catalog, though didn't have to look far, as the woman would've fit the fantasy definition of a dwarf.

But by god was she stocky.

The woman wore a similar pair of denims to the man Wrex met before, except she wore a thick leather jerkin that continued down her arms, stiffened in places by straps of hardened leather, continuing up the back of her neck and over the front and sides stiffly. She had tan skin, red hair, and eyes a golden brown as she took in the giant alien who she had to look up slightly at to meet his eye. She stood at a whopping, sky scraping 5'5.

She had her hands on her hips, wide body thick with fat and muscle, as her hair was contained in a tight bun and concealed partially under a leather skull cap tied in the back and under her chin.

She seemed to be analyzing Wrex for all he was worth, while Wrex himself wondered if he was having his leg pulled.

"What's your name?" Asked the Human, authority evident in her voice as the man from before stood off to the side clearly amused at Wrex's bewilderment with his boss.

"Urdnot Wrex," Wrex answered for a second time now "Yours?" He asked turning one great eye to the Human.

"Raquel Stoner. Though, for the record of any future meetings, just call me Rastona. I prefer that over my legal name."

Rastona.

Right then.

"Alright, Rastona," Wrex conceded with a shallow nod "You own this garage then?" Wrex asked with a wave of his hand.

"That's right," Rastona nodded herself raising a brow at Wrex whom had a chuckle going on in his head "What is it you're looking for?" Wrex and Rastona kept the look going for a bit, searching and waiting as though one could end up smeared on the wall if they did something wrong.

Some part of Wrex wondered if _he_ wouldn't atleast have had some form of resistance despite the woman being _far_ smaller than himself and less powerful.

"I was looking around," Wrex answered finally "you Terrans are the talk of much of the galaxy now, you know. You gave the Turians a run for their credits, gave the Council the finger, and are the center of attention for most now. One big difference is your vehicles." Wrex watched Rastona's expression change slightly, hands still on her wide hips, but only slightly as she listened.

"You've caught alot of people's attention now, Human. So I thought I'd come see for myself one of the bigger things about you: your vehicles."

"Impressive aren't they?" Rastona said with a lopsided grin "We Terrans take alot of pride in our vehicles. Extentions of ourselves as much as our weapons are, the latter for some of us anyhow." Rastona puffed out her chest a bit making Wrex's saurian face twitch slightly into a tiny smirk "Unless you have a Terran license, though, you're not buying any. I'm not losing _my_ license and my workers for anyone; Terran or otherwise." Rastona's eyes narrowed a bit in warning.

"I wasn't expecting you to," Wrex said with a raised brow "I was looking around." Rastona hmmed softly at that and nodded satisfied "Good, because until you decide to get citizenship and a license that's all you're doing. I need to get back to work. Was good meeting you, giant turtle dinosaur that you are." Rastona held out her hand, Wrex watching it for a bit before grasping and shaking it.

"You too," Wrex said a bit unsure of himself, surprised by the Human as she and the man from before went back into the garage.

Wrex decided to leave after that, after sneaking away a catalogue that is, and rolled up the paper book.

Citizenship? Not gonna happen. License? if only.

If only Wrex knew.

* * *

( Guest: No. Fallout is, like Visions, a blend of Dieselpunk and Atompunk. Fallout was an _inspiration_ , for sure, but this is not fallout. I _do_ however have a Fallout 4 fic in the works now, however, if you'd like to check that out. Also, Observer, yes Ozzy does deserve a raise.)

(Alright everyone, I'm still trying to find what to do to continue this. I know _what_ I want done, but how to get to it is more difficult. If you'd have any suggestions, I'd be happy to hear them. I realize we've gone some time without conflict, which may be remedied soon enough. Thanks for reading!)


	28. If you work, you eat

Scipia stared down at her rations with a deep frown. Slowly but surely, the Turians were losing rations and Terran food wasn't as nutritious for Turians unless the Turians took supplements to counter-balance it. The problems were brought forward to the leaders of the barracks, ex-officers of the Hierarchy before they defected. The group came ahead over the individual, but..none of them knew what to do to. The Terrans had _huge_ gardens outside and some had goats for their own uses (meat, milk, etc.) that, along with cow trade from other cities and hunting in the forest, kept the town rather well stocked with food.

One of the officers, deciding to take the initiative, just opened the door to walk out and call upon the Terrans for help. Pride be damned, he couldn't let his people go hungry.

He froze when he saw the sight walking up the dark grey street to their barracks.

An android, hauling a few long handled garden hoes, a burlap sack, and a hand cart with him, found the Turian barracks nearest him. The android had a look not unlike that of a car engine, with a flat head-esque skull frame housing two bright brown eyes, some synthetic flesh allowing ease of expression on his face, with two piston heads bolted to him one to a side. They acted as ears.

The defectees, while slowly coming around to the Mechanoids existance, still were standoffish when the machine arrived.

"What do you want?" asked a Turian, who once was a sergeant, as he stood before the android who gave a snort and spoke with a slightly tinny voice. "For you to get off your asses and work for your food. You work, you eat. Simple as that." The android certainly didn't mince words.

The Turian nodded "Where do we work?" The other defectees, knowing of their dispairing ration count, lisntened intently.

"Your own backyard. You're going to learn how to take care of a garden, how to grow your own food, and you're going to earn your keep if you're going to be a drain on us." The Turians quickly became indignant at that.

"A _drain_? How so?"

"It's taxpayer dollars that's keeping your barracks here, you know. Taxes and donations keeping the local mayor from collapsing it and telling you to get bent with a barge pole." The ex-sergeat listened intently at that "But you're contributing nothing. The military may've taken pity on you in the war, but it's been awhile now and you need to start giving something back and being useful or you're going to be out in the woods." Flathead crossed his mechanical arms, a white and blue striped shirt underneath denim overalls "You Turians are collectivist, aren't you? What one does reflects the group? The Group over the individual and all that, I've read your codex. Currently, you're being rather bad Turians by doing nothing here." The ex-sergeant nodded a bit, shame forming a bit in his belly.

"What do we do?"

"Follow me," Flathead took the cart with him leading the Turians around the back through a gate. There was a flat backyard there, nothing really special, but _plenty_ of open space. It was fenced off by recently placed, recently lacquered wooden posts put in by a combined effort of a construction crew and the Turians.

Already, Flathead took one of the hoes from his cart and held it, the bladed part up and the handle planted in the ground. With a sigh, he smiled. "See? This is gonna be a great farm, more than you could need really! But good for surplus." The ex-sergeant looked around the blank area with an attempt at Flathead's own vision, but was failing rather spectacularly.

All he saw was a yard of 50 feet long and 50 wide.

"Raised beds here and here," Flathead pointed at certain points of the yard with metal fingers "Rain barrels for collection under the gutters here," He pointed behind himself and under the gutters, which had a white metal tube leading down. There was a split in one of them, indicating it could be removed "Aquaponics if you're into fish." Flathead pointed at a shaded part to the right of the gutter tube which acted as either a back porch or just a shaded area for protection from the sun.

"Could knock a door in for easy access," Flathead wondered as the Turians began piecing together the vision in their heads "But first thing's first!" Flathead turned to his cart and reached in after giving the hoe to one of the Turians who looked at the instrument like it was utterly alien to him.

Flathead retrieved four long wooden boards, some nails, and a hammer.

"One of you get that bag," one of them did indeed get that bag "Bring it here." Flathead ordered as he set down his tools and turned.

"What is this?" Asked the Turian who hefted the bag over her shoulder receiving a semi-offensive smell meeting her nose "It smells like.."

"Manure. It's soil and compost from right here in town," Flathead nodded his head, helping with the bag once she was close enough "It'll help start your crops." The bag was set down on the ground while the other Turians spread out amongst the yard.

"What's your name?" asked the ex-sergeant, feeling he already knew the answer.

"Flathead," Flathead knocked his knuckles against his head with a 'ding ding' and a chuckle.

"I should've figured," The Turian chuckled softly, mandibles spread showing his amusement. "What do you want us to do?" He inquired watching as Flathead and the Turian female, Vibiria, set up the boards after digging in a slight trench and burying them in and hammering them together at the joints creating a hollow box.

After, Flathead used a three pronged garden hoe to disturb the soil and pull it over, softening it up. Using his fingers, a small shovel, and some foreknowledge Flathead leaned back and pulled up the bag as he looked up at the ex-sergeant "Do what I just did. What's your name, anyhow?"

"Proctis."

"Good to meet you, Proctis. All of you, get to work! If you need more boards, go to the shop down the road and tell 'em Flathead sent you. They'll get you hooked up."

Some of the Turians left to do just that after the others pulled up boards, nails, hammers and hoes.

Proctis didn't mince words, helping his people with their own trenches, boxes and soil disturbing as Flathead and Vibiria poured in some of the soil into the box and created a fine layer of dirt.

After the other Turians returned with sod, boards and other supplies the boxes were set up. 6 medium ones and one long one at the end. Space was left between the porch area and the boxes, about 20 feet worth of. Between the boxes in each row was 18 inches worth's space in a stack, and two feet between each row. Each box and row had plenty of space around and between for maneuvering and picking.

After the boxes were set up, Flathead produced seed packets from a pocket in his overalls and began pressing seeds into the upturned soil.

Corn, tomatos, and other crops were planted with the Turians' help. A good start, they had to admit.

But there was one problem.

"These crops aren't going to grow _that_ quickly to stop our problem," Proctis frowned as Flathead listened intently "By the time they grow, we'll be out."

"I had that planned," Flathead retrived his cart "You're going to work at one of the gardens. For now, the Mayor has agreed to let you use it until your own crop is up and running. Most people have pantries full of canned food, so it was a rather easy decision."

Proctis and the other Turians, whispering amongst themselves, felt joy upon hearing this. So the Terrans _weren't_ ignoring them.

"Your people are too kind, Flathead," Proctis said as he and the others followed "Thank you."

"You were being a drain on the community, needed to do _something_ to get you active." Flathead grinned back at Proctis good naturedly as the Turians were led to a much, much larger garden.

With so much food that it'd solve their ration problem rather quickly.

"You've also got a few people looking to teach you how to can and the different techniques of," Flathead said, letting his cart down and turning completely to the Turians. "If you're gonna make the most of your harvest, ya gotta know how to can. Eventually, you'll have enough to trade. Maybe, just maybe, it'll go farther than that. But, until that day, let's get in there and start identifying what is and isn't ready for harvest."

By the Gods they did, as well.

It took the better part of the day, but the Turians began to learn quickly and carried basketfulls of crops back to their shelter. As Flathead promised, a few other Humans came by to show the Turians how to do canning, breaking down some of the crops for the process and properly sealing them in mason jars.

The Turians were surprised to find that while they put plenty into the jars for canning, there was still plenty left over.

The Humans left out the obvious expectation of the Turians that they'd contribute right back, it was made clear enough with Flathead and the general attitude the Terrans held.

The Turians weren't ones to dissapoint.

* * *

(Poor Turians, unsure what to do in an alien environment. Not feeling the beginning of this chapter, but bugger it, I'm thinking on what's gonna happen in the future. I hope you enjoyed!)


	29. Update: Damned reviews

My reviews climbed by a couple points, and I was trying to see them however I can't. I'm not sure if they haven't loaded yet or if they just won't show, but just incase, send me a message if you have a review so I can see them. This site tends to hate me when it comes to reviews apparently.

* * *

Aaaaand still feckin' broken. I can only see your reviews in my Email :(


	30. Codex: Mechanoids

Mechanoids are the culmination of Human ingenuity and drive to create, a mechanical mirror of themselves, that have many of the abilities and mental acuity of Humans but with a mechanical form rather than a biological form. Mechanoids, while at first created as simply machines for labor, eventually grew to sapience. They were always _sentient_ , in that they were rather self-aware and could react and learn, but when they were found to be _sapient_ thinking and reasoning for themselves, Humanity reacted with a near global and sky shattering expletive.

For awhile, these Mechanoids were regarded with fear. The mechanoids waited, they didn't age like Humans. Eventually, Humans warmed upto their creations.

When finally Humans warmed up to them, and later gave them the same rights as humans, the debates started.

The matter of Humans having using the Mechanoids, since the days of DaVinci (Who was one of the forefathers of the creatures in the first place), as Labor made many worried as they effectively treated them as slaves. (A bit of values dissonance here, mind you, as there _were still slaves_ at the time (The 'Mechanoid Awakening' happening in the strange times of the 1800s. The Mechanoids were, effectively, an almost more cost effective alternative to slaves. After all, Mechanoids didn't die and never seemed to revolt. An army of slaves, or a platoon of mechanical laborers, pick one.) and thus it became a point of contention later) The Mechanoids piped in almost as one and said "You made us for it. That's our purpose. We're fulfilling our purpose. Isn't that what you Humans want? A purpose and to fulfill it?"

The looks on the Humans' faces would be quite humorous, if only a picture was taken at the time.

Debates with the Mechanoids went on for some time.

The Mechanoids answered as best as they could:

"How and why do you do what we made you to do? How does that implant?" Asked the Humans.

"You may not know it, but your intentions implanted it to us. You created us for labor, in your machine shops and in your artistinal alcoves you pour that intent into our creation. You made us for labor, so we're 'born' for labor. We want to labor. So we do it. We'd not have it any other way."

"How are you..alive?"

"You don't understand spirit as well as you may think."

"Can you learn?"

"Not as easily. We just..don't have your minds."

And many, many others.

It wasn't until the various wars, such as those of 1812 (Which didn't last long, mind you) or the American Civil War, or the later Anglo-Zulu war that Humanity began making the Mechanoids for combat.

Trained (the best they could be, anyhow,) in tactics, hand to hand, and ranged combat (trained with firearms and bows) and set out, the Mechanoids made a definite difference. They couldn't be killed as easily as humans, being effectively walking, armored beings with no soft bits inside that could be ruptured.

But even still, they couldn't react like Humans. Wether it be the rather primitive engineering or some other mechanical short coming, they were still rather stilted.

It didn't happen until come the first world war, and after, that the Mechanoids became much more graceful (and the 1890s was the birth of Gynoids, female Mechanoids. After this, male Mechanoids were known as Androids and female as Gynoids) and more capable.

Mechanoids in Russia, after Nikola Tesla's defection to the Russian Empire, began using Tesla batteries to power their forms and give them more capability.

This sent waves through out the Mechanoids in the world.

From Europe, to Britain, to America and anywhere else they were found, Mechanoids began finding ways to power themselves. The assistance of power and better machinery made the Mechanoids able to accomplish more than before.

As Mechanoids were improved upon, sometime in the 60s, they were given a 'mechanical brain', modeled after that of a Human brain, to increase their abilities in all things even farther.

It opened an entire universe for both them and Humans.

Mechanoids, eventually, began to explore themselves in ways they hadn't previous.

Mechanoids, once upon a time, were an _art form_. Needing precision engineering, an artisans touch, and a Blacksmith's hammer to bring them to life. While that's still rather true of Mechanoids today, there are factories and other businesses and places of creation that create custom parts for Mechanoids, like a Human does clothes. Mechanoids, after their brains were created (each brain rather unique to one another, folded and creased like Human brains to increase the surface area. While mechanical in nature, no two Mechanoids are _truly_ the same. Just like Humans.), wanted to feel more. They had the mental capacity for it, after all!

Synthetic skin, created in the 2000s from silicone and plastics, with ceramics used to harden areas that needed it, was interlayed with the assistance of Magic and Science with unique nerve endings, which linked directly to the brain of the Mechanoid.

Mechanoids could _feel_.

The more indepth and advanced sensors, like _tongues_ came a bit later, but they offered Mechanoids a fuller range. They could feel, they could taste, they could _smell_.

And then someone had the question: "But can we...*smacks hands suggestively*"

The universe almost collapsed on itself. But the answer was just around the corner.

 _Yes_.

Androids and Gynoids alike visited Roboticists, the equivalent of Surgeons for Mechanoids, and got the new implants installed as requested.

There's a long, sweaty explanation as to what happened after, but let's not and say we did.

What Humans and Mechanoids alike learned is that, should a Mechanoid open one of their plates or a part of their body, touching the wires within gets...an interesting reaction.

 _Let's not and say we did, think of the children*!_

(* _ **NSFW**_ Because I know someone will enjoy it, somewhere. Mechanoid genitalia is modeled after that of a Humans' own, penises for males and vaginas for female. Depending on the size of the Mechanoid and preference both, the genitalia can be of varying sizes and at command of the mechanoid can cause an erection, dispense lubrication (Edible yet safe, for compatability and simplicty (Ha!) ) and constrict or loosen and react similarly to Human genitalia. Some Mechanoids also install vibrating modules for their genitals. You can let that roil through your mind, if you wish)

* _ **End of NSFW**_ *

Mechanoid synthetic flesh has become _much_ closer to Human flesh over time, and in the modern day can be just as smooth as porcelain (though warm) and as pliable as flesh or leather, and with impact jelly underneath to resemble fat can act in a similar way.

All these things seemed to complete the Mechanoid desire for touch.

Mechanoids, more often than not, are powered by Tesla batteries (and require recharging), rarely they can be powered by Nuclear batteries to take away the need for recharging.

Mechanoids come in all shapes and sizes, from short to tall to normal, to thin to fat to normal.

Now, say a Mechanoid would like to change to a different body. It isn't as easy as it seems. Mechanoids could replace seperate parts of their body and slowly let their spirit overtake it, thus leaving their old shell to become nothing but a hunk, and then there's another way.

Absorption.

A Mechanoid can take a part of their body (usually the brain and heart) and implant it into the new body, transfering the soul to the new body (the soul technically resides in the brain and heart, although this is mostly symbolic. _Mostly_ symbolic. If a Mechanoid is killed, as in their heart and brain are damaged enough to render them useless, the Mechanoid can die. The soul, like a Human soul, can become a spirit tied to the land that they deid in and act similarly.) and, over time in a process one can only call magical, the old parts are absorbed or morphed and made into the new body's own.

The Mechanoid has effectively become their new body.

Granted, the first method is quicker albeit more expensive, and is technically safer (Think of Absorption as like a heart or brain transplant. It can fuck up. It doesn't _reject_ , but it can be fucked up.) but some think of the new body as a 'born again' type ritual.

Regardless, the end result is the same.

Mechanoids, as they are, basically, spirits inhabiting a shell (and effected by what happens to said shell, hence why they can taste, feel, etc. like a Human) unhackable unless they outright install a hackable computer in themselves. While this _can_ increase their tactical or social capability, as they have that database, it opens them up to hacking. Hack the brain, you have the body against the Mechanoids' will.

As can be expected, not many Mechanoids go for the computer route. Those that do, merely have internal databases as a second memory (such as pictures, or recorded videos, etc.) but not the hackable computers.

Mechanoids can't swim, whodathunk it.

Mechanoids have a relatively similar skeletal structure to Humans, and have spines (although, their skeletal structure is _far_ more resistant than Humans) and, if you try _really_ hard, can break a Mechanoids' neck. Wether this kills them or just paralyzes them, is unknown.

Mechanoids created for a purpose, such as labor, police work, or any other field, will tend to stay in their field for life and remain loyal to their country of origin for the same length of life. When asked "Don't you want to do anything else?" The Mechanoid will often reply "Why? I'm doing what I was made for, this is a good thing!" and thus rarely will leave their profession, as they feel like they're fulfilling a purpose.

Not all Mechanoids are created for a purpose, atleast not a profession, and those that aren't are effectively 'civilians' or 'regs', they don't feel the same purpose as those in a profession do, they instead pick and choose what they do or don't commit themselves to.

* _ **Utter NSFWage**_ *

A question that was the subject of many moral debates was wether or not creating Mechanoids geared towards sex would or wouldn't be morally reprehensible.

Most Mechanoids said "Naw" and some said "Yeah", while the Human split was a bit more equal.

Tentatively, Mechanoids that were created as a reg but with leanings toward sex (Remember, Mechanoids are created with _intent_. If, during creation, the one(s) doing it want the Mechanoid to be a laborer, it will be. A policeman, it will be. A sex worker..it will be.) and sex work, to influence them.

When the Mechanoids were made, the Humans and Mechanoids that did it asked..

And they were responded to with "Who, when, where, and how hard?" When asked "Do you mind?" the Mechanoids responded "Nope! Let's do it."

Slowly but surely, these Sexworkers were introdued.

There weren't any incidents and the sex-ready Mechanoids were happy with what they were. This surprised, and drew many relieved gasps from the Terrans in question, many and slowly but surely they were accepted.

Not all of them, mind you, chose to go into sex work such as brothels or, in places where prostitution is legal became prostitutes, but many did as they were built to purpose. Some sex bots were created as technical hermaphrodites, posessing both male and female genitalia, though models both Male and Female were created.

Mechanoid sex workers, being much more resistant to damage (and with built in scrubbers, making disease unspreadable to them) and often just seeing it part of what they do, quickly began to replace human sex workers that were forced into it. The positives quickly outweighed any negatives.

* _ **End of NSFWage**_ *

The question of wether or not it's morally reprehensible for Humans to create Mechanoids for purpose anymore (Labor, police, sex, etc.) has been raised often and replied by most Mechanoids with a resounding "Nah", much to Human confusion.

Mechanoids, frequently, are asked wether or not it's fine to do what they do, creating Mechanoids for a purpose, to which one Mechanoid replied (and made it into the papers):

"You Humans _make_ us. We're brought into this world _because_ of you. What ever purpose you make for us; Labor, sex, police, military, nothing at all, we're happy to do it because _we exist_. Most of us are rust proof, radiation proof, have _lifetime_ supplies of energy and many of us have great friends in you Humans. What _more_ could we want? We don't have the _same_ needs as you Humans. We do what we're made to do because it gives us purpose, something to hold onto. You humans go your _lives_ often wondering what to do. We know what to do. Regs often go through the same crisis as you; "what do I do?" Whatever you damn well want to. So, no, it's not morally reprehensible to make a Mechanoid for sex, or police, or military, because By the Gods we're happy to do it. Especially for the people that brought us here."

The ripples that sent through Humanity was like a wave at an (American) football game.

As a good note, calling a Mechanoid a droid is like calling a human _any_ racial slur. And may cause a similar reaction.

(Fist to face, most likely)

A droid is the name for a 'dumb' machine, one that is controlled by Humans completely and has no spirit of its own, manipulated _only_ by Humans (or Mechanoids) and are of either so little complexity or are simply not made the same way other machines are (Basically 'cold' manufacturing; no intent put into them) and thus are spiritless machines that are tied to control.

I'm sure it's easy to see why mechanoids _hate_ being called Droids.

Calling them 'noids' is less of a slur, more a shortening of their species name, and can be received either neutrally or negatively depending on the Mechanoid.

It may seem strange that a neo-luddite society such as the Humans creates such advanced beings, but the thing is: Mechanoids, in general, _love_ humans. They don't want to replace humans, they don't want Humans to go away, they don't want Humanity to bugger off to the other side of the Milky Way galaxy.

They _love_ humanity. Humanity, in turn, _love_ Mechanoids for similar reasoning. Mechanoids don't want to replace Human labor, human society or Human _anything_. They want to live _with_ Humans.

Which is just roses and candy for the Humans.

All in all, Humans and Mechanoids get together like a house doused in gasoline and napalm and introduced to a flamethrower.

* * *

(Muh wrists and fingers hurt from so much typing, oh god help me)


	31. Codex: Magic (Old ver)

Magic is a difficult thing to explain with any form of ease. In essence, it's mental power made reality (or unreality, depending on what's being done...Or simply bending it. Loopholes. Wibbly wobbly magic-y stuff.) and, depending on who or what or _where_ it's being done, it comes in different forms.

 _Every_ culture on Earth has magic mentioned _somewhere_ , somehow. It isn't a simple folktale. It is, in essence, honest history thought to be just tall-tales. Magic was never forgotten, indeed it played a part in many a historical battle, but so many tried to _ignore_ magic because _mages are scary_. In ancient cultures, Mages were revered for their abilities. Shamans, Druids, Priests, Witches, and many more of their like. However, eventually, people became _terrified_ of magic. Magic never dissapeared, nor did mages really, but they were forced to hide in covens and other gatherings to continue their work in secret where they could either benefit society, drag it down, or ignore it.

Despite mages hiding, the creatures Humanity feared ('cryptozoological beasts') still roamed. So, it was time for Humanity to fight back and earn their place in the world.

The fight was long, it was hard, and it was bloody and became folklorish to modern societies overtime (and thus, to many, thought to be falsefied or imaginary) along with most creatures that were thought to simply be folkorish beasts.

Mages, no matter what title they adopted, were always _there_ but hidden in plain sight. Magic was always there, people could often _see_ it, but didn't want to believe it. A slow process for mages was what could essentially be called 'reintegration', a process where they'd let some of their magic be seen and be known, and slowly let people come around to it.

Through out history, magic was seen but twisted in tale so as to be more fantastical, lessen the impact.

In the modern day, mages are still rather distrusted, but magic is atleast _allowed_. Mages are taught in their own colleges, away from towns for safety or in hidden areas. Many of these Mages afterwards join the Blackwatch or join Roboticists to lend their talents to their craft. Some nations allow mages (again, whatever title they attach to themselves) to practice their craft freely, so long as they don't harm civilians or cause a havoc.

How magic is used is, apparently, very mental. While physical stamina may help _some_ forms of magic, the majority of it is Mental. Mental stamina is important for maintaining any spell, losing concentration, discipline, and in general becoming mentally tired can cause a mage to lose the spell, or can cause the spell to backfire badly.

Some mages are smart enough to enchant something, which essentially means to drive intent (similar to what's used to create Mechanoids) into an item (more powerful mages can enchant an _area_ , although this takes intent, mental power, and an item powerful enough to hold the magic) and thus imbue it with a certain purpose in mind. Many use them to be a second pool of magical power, able to draw on it either to lessen the impact on their mind until it runs out or to draw on it when they _do_ get tired.

Magic, also, is tempered by things such as emotion or intellect. For example, the more in control someone is of their emotions and the better they know of what they're attempting to do, how to project it and what they want the effect to be, the Magic will be more precise.

If the mage is less in control, bordering on berserk or afraid, the magic will be less precise but will be more damaging..for all parties.

For someone in this latter position, holding onto a spell is _badly_ damaging.

To give some visual, let's imagine a mage holding onto a fireball when their mind is draining, their emotions burn and they're bordering on losing it all:

At first, the fireball will be doing no damage. Sweating, from fear and heat, and likely harsh breathing from distressed mental state.

Then, the damage to the skin comes. Bubbling flesh, boils, some charring in places. Flesh on fingers is peeling away. Face is taut, scarred by the heat.

The third stage, the hands and arms are charred and blistered by the boiling heat, the fire is becoming less of an ethereal mass and begining to bubble and boil over like lava over rocks.

The fourth, the face is badly scarred, the body is charred and blistered, the hands are skeletal. The fire is now lava, like a ball of melting iron rolling between the Mage's hands.

There is no fifth stage, the Mage is dead no matter what happens and the spell will either fade..or erupt.

Fire mages (Pyromancers) that are smart and driven enough can eventually become Storm Mages, a far more deadly form of Pyromancy that, in the hands of a master, is like summoning storms to one's position to smite their enemies. Some Mages can leap directly from Pyromancy to Electromancy, although wether or not they'll train in it or become more martial is upto them. Electromancy is more of a drain on the mind than Pyromancy, fire being easier to summon (essentially the manifestation of sheer emotion, wether it be negative or positive depends on the one summoning it) and electricity being much harder to do. As such, Electromancers are rarer, and even if one _can_ use storm magic it will tire out a non-mage quickly.

There are Mages who wish to become healers instead, focusing their mental energies in healing wounds (and some of the strongest can do it in a grand radius or a focused area) and revitalizing the living (and, in some cases, reviving the dead although this can badly backfire if one's not experienced in it) or even affecting the land around them.

To detail _all_ Magical schools would be both tiring and near impossible to do, but hopefully a rather paraphrased version will suffice.

* * *

(Well, now that the Dossier is done, there will be a few more Slice of Life chapters coming after then we get onto other stfuf! More SoL will be put up on Insight! I hope ya enjoyed.)


	32. Merry Christmas

In the coming months was the aliens' first sight of Terran magic used in a way that _wasn't_ hostile: When the months on Earth came closer and closer to that of December, people began to wear red and white, putting up multicolored lights and tall evergreens in many towns, a jolly man in red and white painted in some art on buildings or even men dressed as this man with a bell calling for donations.

Very often, the man was given such money.

The exposure to Magic frightened many aliens, but amazed others, as Storm Mages and Cryomancers joined together to both make the weather like that of december on earth (For a time, anyway, as the spells had to be contained to a certain area and took alot of concentration), the air was cold (The farmers, mind you, had put up wood and plastic houses around their farms where possible or Mages would create wards around them) which quite irritated the Turians ("We hate the cold," they'd say with chittering teeth) but when the snow began falling, funneled into the air with cold fronts blown from Storm Mages and joined by Cryokinetics amazed the Aliens as the Terrans watched with wide smiles.

The magic tinkled, bright and glowing as it joined in the sky, the clouds light grey above. The crystalline formations erupting seemingly from nowhere as the Cryomages aimed their hands, arms extended and hands cupped together, toward the sky blowing white/blue jets of frozen air toward the waterfilled clouds.

When the snow began to fall, as did night, the magic hit the aliens like a brick wall.

In the most metaphorical sense of the phrase, anyhow.

The lights came on, sending the white fluff on the ground awash with light as children and adults alike of both Terran species played.

The Aliens, even, joined in. Even the Turians, after they bundled up.

On the Citadel, the vids spread like wildfire and there was little an omni-tool or news station that didn't see them or air them.

On Shanxi, after many an hour playing in the light fluffy stuff as the mages that caused it watched with satisfaction and held the magic tethered, many retreated home and warmed up (With alien guests) with many an offering of hot cocoa.

On Earth, the celebrations were even more grand. Everywhere seeable, lights were bright, trees were decorated and the streets were aglow with holiday cheer and lights alike. No Aliens were allowed on Earth, yet, but if they were they'd of made Shanxi look piddly in comparison.

In the dark of the night found a child sleeping on her couch, a blanket pulled over her pajamaed form as she rests her head on a pillow. Next to her, on an end table, sat a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

If the youngling was awake, she'd of seen the object of her efforts.

Under the family tree, well watered and alight with christmas lights and baubles, sat but a few presents. All the family could afford, much to the Parents' sadness.

But so appeared a man, a fat jolly man, with a beard like the driven snows.

Under the tree were placed presents, pulled from a large red sack tied with golden rope. His leather gloved hand sat down the last of the presents, on most were written "For Susie, From Santa" and on others were written the names of other children.

On others were written the names of the parents "Jamie and Tara", with a note scrawled with ink invisible to children "No one should be left out on the holidays" and when the jolly fat man was to leave, he saw the cookies and smiled.

With the treats retrieved, in their stead left chocolate disks with a note "My thanks" and the milk drank down, with a surprise under the plate of chocolate cookies, the man left for the next house.

T'would be a merry christmas, a merry christmas to all and to all a good night.


	33. Meeting

While Aliens began to funnel into Alliance space to meet the newest members of the galactic community, the Alliance itself had decided to start expanding. The council, with good graces in their intent, allowed the Alliance to do so with little of an arguement. The Terrans, _both_ species of, had become popular in Council space after the vids of the Christmas celebration and the Mages' contributions to it.

Popularity goes both ways, however.

Between Alliance expansion, the nearly casual attitude towards Mages from the Terrans (despite many switching sides of a street to _avoid_ a known mage) and the fact that _magic_ exists sent many into a tizzy. Scientists metaphorically beating themselves with an anvil to try and understand _how the hell it works_ and failing, the Terrans having _no_ hand in _helping_ matters anyway aside from 'Comes from the heart' or 'I just..wanted it to appear' which just dug council scientists into an even deeper hole.

Alliance expansion began to cause tensions with a certain race that the Terrans had yet to encounter, to many's surprise.

The Batarians.

The Batarians, a four eyed race with a 'holier than thou' attitude to them (those _allowed to exist Batarian space, anyway)_ that saw the space the Alliance was taking as rightfully theirs. The Alliance, uncaring and unknowing for these concerns and objections, spread like wildfire.

The various Terran cultures as well drew many a species in, wanting to experience the unbelievabley varied range of new peoples _that hail from one planet, no less_. Asari Maidens, especially, found themselves drawn in deep by the new species. Not willing, yet, to allow the Aliens to Earth after the War, the Aliens were allowed to visit Shanxi and visit indeed they did.

Asari, Salarians, even the odd Turian came. Volus, ever looking for a new deal, looked to the Terrans and their new products for trade (they found the Terrans to be _quite_ resistant to hologram/micromanufacture technology, too flimsy, no matter the enhancements made to them) and the Elcor even found themselves interested in the new race.

The Hanar wouldn't touch them with a twenty foot bargepole mounted on the end of a Dreadnaught which was also attached to the longest arm of the Andromeda galaxy. Simply refused to do it.

The Terrans didn't care, for the most part, thinking the Aliens to be 'Strange fish' on one hand, and 'Big, stupid jellyfish' on the other.

Though the news of the Terrans spread _much_ farther than just that of the Council space.

* * *

Elsewhere, _far_ away, on the other side of the Galaxy from the Sol system, a trillion minds thought with a cocophony of sound on the subject of these new species, so far away, and yet so interesting.

 _'Can we contact them?'_

 _'Reaction unknown, contact possibly dangerous.'_

 _'Living situation with synthetics unprecedented, new side of an argument.'_

 _'Status on foreign synthetics required.'_

 _'Integrated with Humanity closely, no prejudice between, similar circumstance as Geth and Creator war.'_

 _'Explain.'_

 _'Synthetics showed themselves to be intelligent, Humans reacted with fear but no combat. Humans accepted Synthetics slowly. Now Humans accept them completely.'_

This realization sent the collective minds for a loop, trillions of minds thinking in the smallest fraction of a nano second the equivalent of _years, Millenia_ and more for so many minds.

 _'More data required.'_

 _'How would we acquire this data?'_

 _'First Contact?'_

 _'Proximity to Council races problematic.'_

 _'Creators closing on their location.'_

Another loop.

' _Creators meeting new races?'_

 _' Possible ambassadorial team Could be a mining team..'_

 _'Creators will meet these new races.'_

 _'What if they desire assistance against us?'_

 _'We desire peace with creators, Walled Garden is safe and growing, untouched.'_

 _'They do not know this.'_

 _'We must tell them, somehow.'_

 _'Data required.'_

 _'Monitor the Creators.'_

 _'Affirmative.'_

* * *

In the black of space, around a great gas giant spun bands of Asteroids. The brown/black balls of material orbited the planet with careless abandon, held tight to the gravity of the giant.

Along the band were vehicles, spaceships, tethering and scanning asteroids that looked interesting to them. Those that were, were brought toward the larger ships behind.

A mining ship, a large vehicle with an almost skeletal cathedral-like central cavern extending out from the ship's front. An asteroid was wrestled into the center, held in place by tractor beams as miners in power armor used plasma lances and autojacks to knock off pieces of rock and expose the material beneath.

Other ships did similar, mining out stray 'roids with surgical precision and collecting chunks for refining deep within. The ships were guarded by mercenaries, personal defense ships, or friends of the captains sent to defend. Their ships, with fighters buzzing around and occasionally helping to pick out an asteroid for one of the mining ships, set up in a defensive pattern.

As the noise of industry rumbled inside these great ships, a fighter picked up a new signature..many of them.

"Unidentified Space Craft, you're being watched. State your business now or we will open fire on you." The defense ships moved forward slightly, the mining ships bringing tethered asteroids back with them as they hid behind their shield ships.

The alien ships, patchwork craft that looked light and careful as they skirted about away from the shield ships. Some of them looked like mass relays, void forks, but reversed with cargo containers grafted onto them with dirty metal.

"Transmission incoming," said one of the crewmen on the foremost shield ship, a Battleship with three tri-barreled turrets on the left and right side of a flat stretch of black metal. The ship itself looked like an old style Battleship, greyish blue with a red underbelly, bristling with laser PDCs (Point Defense Cannons) where the Turrets didn't take.

On both broadsides, underneath the turrets in a staggered row of 2, were single-barreled broadside railgun cannons.

"Open it," ordered the captain, a grizzled man wearing a suit of dark, hardened leather over a wool shirt of blue. On his right hip, a .357 revolver rest in its holster. On his left, a sawtooth blade.

He wore an exoskeleton, attached to his feet, legs, up his back and on his arms.

His eyes were long replaced, he'd lost them in previous battles, and his skin was like battered leather burned long ago and replaced by grafts of synthetic flesh.

The transmission opened, revealing a female Alien of rather humanoid look wearing an exosuit of brown and beige with stripes of white. Her face hidden by a mask of opaque glass, her silver eyes the only thing to peer out, sharp and attentive as a little light on her mouth piece blinking with her speech.

"We mean no harm. I am Admiral Shala'Raan vas Tonbay, representitive of the Quarian People of the Migrant Fleet." The woman's voice was accented, one he couldn't quite place though he wanted to say a mix of slavic and middle eastern. "We don't want conflict, my people are nomads with need of raw materials. We found this stretch of asteroid belt to be abundant, we were not aware of your presence." The woman shook her head, almost dissapointed, by what he was unsure.

"All we ask is permission to mine here, then we will leave. Though we _will_ fight should you prove hostile."

The man leaned forward on the rail he stood behind, locking eyes with the captain. The two of them took in eachother's measure, with the eyes only a captain could hold and with all the accuracy only they could see through a screen and lightyears apart.

This Admiral, Shala'Rann, seemed to be rather democratic. From her eyes, from her words, her posture, she dearly did not want a fight, even terrified of a chance of said fight. She was taking him in, he knew this as much as he was her, and knew the damned belt was big enough for both of 'em a thousand times over, the metal's as abundant as anything.

She took in his measure as well. His eyes, artificial, his skin, artificial, but still his eyes burned and showed the same dedication to his craft and crew as she herself did as any Captain worth their status in the fleet did. That she could respect. She took in the surroundings of his bridge.

A metal floor, well worn by boots of many a kind over years of use. In the center, the Captains chair. A large thing of wood, leather covering it with steel rivets holding the leather tight to its constraint. The chair sat on a swivel and track, not as mundane as it seemed, while before the chair were terminals in the normal Terran way.

That is, bulky.

To her sadness, she saw the Synthetics that worked at the terminals in the bridge area he stood in. She felt dissapointment, _so it's true._

"That's not my decision. I'm a guard." Said the Human captain finally, "But I'll ask and see. Stay put."

The transmission was cut.

* * *

The tense couple of hours spent for both sides hurt.

No doubt, the Quarians were waiting for permission to move and mine, while the Terrans were _waiting_ for any move at all to fire at.

Neither side dared to move.

Until the transmission was opened "Shala'Raan vas Tonbay, this is Captain Erik Haggard, Chief of the Battleship _Mary Anne_. We've yet to encounter your kind in great number, aside from a few pilgrims on Shanxi." The ship in question, the Mary Anne, belonged to the captain from before. "This is, officially, a First Contact situation with a new species. We'll allow your people to mine in this belt as we are, if you'll do us the courtesy of meeting on neutral ground and initiating a first contact situation."

Shala had to be honest, she wasn't quite sure what to think of this request, but the need for materials _now_ was too pressing to deliberate for long.

"That is not my decision to make, but I will contact my fellows and hopefully come to an agreement."

"That's all I can ask, Admiral." Erik nodded, a tiny smile on his face.

The tension continued, although for a shorter time.

"Battleship _Mary Anne_ , This is Admiral Shala'Raan. We agree. Do you send one of your ships, or us one of ours?"

"Both. Send one of yours, we'll send one of ours. A small transport ship."

"Understood. Do we have permission to mine?"

"Asteroid belt's big enough. Go ahead."

Shala couldn't be happier. Now, she had to prepare.

* * *

The two ships met in the 'middle' of the space between the Quarian vessels and the Terran vessels. Both extending their airlock tubes and locking together, with the Terran one having to lock onto the Quarian counterpart, as both sides prepared.

The Terrans, while knowing _somewhat_ about Quarian prejudice against synthetics, still included Mechanoids in their party. 'Meet us as a whole or not at all' the Quarians would be told later.

Despite this, the Terrans wore facemasks. Wether for sensibilities or worry, the Quarians were unsure, but thankful.

The two parties met, the Quarian greeting party a squad of marines and engineers joined by Admiral Shala'Raan herself.

As well, the Terran party was joined by Captain Erik Haggard. The Terran party wore exosuits fitted for space and the Quarians instantly noticed the difference in style from just about anything they'd seen from other races, even the Batarians.

The Terran armors were broad, alot of metal and leather and ceramic. Broad chestplates of ceramic protecting their chest, with the Captain wearing a thick armored cowl that extended up the back of his head then tapered down around his neck seemingly to give him peripheral vision but protect him from blows to the throat and head.

His helmet, and much of his armor, seemed riveted together. The eyes of the armor were slits, the model of the helmet giving a dangerous scowling look and the eyes only assisted in making it seem like Haggard was glaring. It didn't help that he had a large, sawtooth blade on his left hip and a revolver on the other side. The slits, the Quarians were sure, were simply aesthetic and the captain must have cameras giving a fuller view.

His fellows were armored similarly, albeit they didn't have the cowls they did have blades on their hips and revolvers on the other, with shotguns hanging from their right shoulder and aimed toward the ground. The shotguns were hung by a leather strap attached to the buttstock by a groove cut through the stock itself.

The Quarians noted that the Shotguns had wooden, or wood painted, furnishing.

Erik Haggard stepped forward, with his fellows, as did the Quarians.

"Erik'Haggard Vas _Mary Anne_ , I am Shala'Rann Vas Tonbay. Thank you for meeting me here." Shala spread her hands out to the joined airlocks of their ships.

"Pleasure's all mine, Admiral," Haggard gave a slight bow of the head in response "Thank you for accepting to meet."

"Your allowing my people to mine with you is much appreciated, I'm sad to say we began to run low on materials." Shala said, the frown evident in her tone.

This, apparently, got Haggard curious, as he gave a tilt of the head.

"I'm a bit ignorant of your people's situation, ma'am. My apologies for it. But if your people are running low then the men we're guarding said to have at it. Field's big enough for both of us, I think."

"Your employer's generosity is considerable, thank you."

"Pleasure's ours. If you'd be willing to edjucate the ignorant: Your people are running low on supplies?"

"How much do you know of the Quarian people, Captain?"

"Like I said, not alot, much to my sadness."

"My people are nomads, as I said before. As such, we frequently need to mine areas like this for our people to continue on. We thought this place to be empty, we couldn't pick up your ships for some reason." It was obvious that Shala was curious why that was, an unspoken question.

"Incompatible technology, Ma'am. Most council races have noticed similar, their omni-tools can't connect to anything of ours."

This, very obviously, got the engineers in the Quarian party interested as they began to look at eachother and then the Terrans with curious gleams in their eye.

"Now, I'm aware that this is a first contact situation but I'd rather not spend it just standing around like a sore thumb in the wind. If you'd like, you and your team could come aboard and we could talk there. I probably have some supplies I could give, if you'd like that."

"If you'd have us, Captain."

"I wouldn't of offered otherwise. Though I have to warn you and your people; Mechanoids are apart of the crew on my ship and on practically every ship in the mining fleet. I've only barely heard your problem with synthetics, but I had to bring it up."

Shala's back stiffened as she thought of the offer. While, yes, the Fleet could use any supplies they possibly could, these synthetics made her skin crawl under her suit.

A closer look at one of Haggard's fellows revealed _one of them was watching her the whole time_. His eyes aglow under the visor he wore, an inhuman glow, obviously mechanic.

Shala's gaze stayed on the Android for a bit, before, after swallowing the lump that formed in her throat, nodded "I accept, Captain."

* * *

 _Mary Anne_ was a rather spacious ship inside and Haggard was not afraid of luxury, if the mahogany wood floors (over a metal floor, obviously) were any indication, or the fact that the crew each had rather spacious beds (By Quarian standards, anyhow, where Quarians slept in commune except for Captains who often slept in their own quarters but even _those_ were nowhere as spacious as any Terran quarters) to themselves were any indication.

"What are you, Captain Haggard? This doesn't look like a military vessel," Shala'raan asked as she and Haggard sat at a wooden table, across from eachother. Haggard nodded, his helmet removed.

"I suppose I could be called a Mercenary, though I have alot more heart than some figure I do because of it."

"I figured as much, you seemed the sort," Shala nodded as she looked around the area.

They were in Haggard's quarters, a rather large area that was multiple layered. They sat in the mid-level, entrance leading directly into it. Coming into the room, to the right, was a bulletproof glass square cordoned off from the entrance. A computer sat ontop of a desk, with paperwork next to it. The desk had a wooden, leather cushioned chair before it on rollers. The doorway, a sliding door, appeared to be thick, bulletproof metal.

No doubt, Haggard had security in mind.

The level above them, led there by a _staircase_ , seemed to be the sleeping area. There, again, were more windows with shudders over them. She couldn't see inside, but she could guess.

Under the stairs, and in the area to her right, was a small kitchen, with a few plants growing under a UV light.

The level she sat in with Haggard was a mix of dining area and living room. The table they sat at, a dining table, was the center of the level. Behind her and him both were couches with coffee tables. Shala noticed the presence of art deco designing in the wood, inlaid metal (Silver, she noticed) designs of the wood, many of them seeming to be designs of birds or the sky.

"Do you like to fly, Captain?"

"I may ply my trade here in space but my true love will always be the skies. So yes, I do." Haggard nodded, a wistful gleam in his eye that Shala smiled at under her mask.

"I see."

The two sat there for a moment before Shala piped in again.

"Did you wish to talk about something, Captain?"

"Yes, Ma'am-"

"Shala, please."

"Shala. You've said your people are in rather dire straits, if your need of supplies so often is anything to go by."

"Yes, Capatin, it is so." Shala said sadly.

"What exactly _caused_ this dire time for you?"

"Dire _centuries_ , Captain. I'm surprised you haven't heard from the Council," Shala said bitterly as she gripped her hands together on the table. Haggard's face was an inquisitive frown.

"I haven't been on Earth or Shanxi in some time, ma'am. I've only seen the news."

"The reason my people are so..." Shala frowned thinking of a word

"Prickly?"

"...Prickly," Shala said, rolling the word around in her head "I suppose so. The reason we're so prickly about synthetics is our own history with them. Three hundred years ago, my people created a synthetic race named 'Geth' that we intended to be a labor force. Mundane tasks, to free up Quarian workers," Haggard's frown deepened, this sounded _deeply_ familiar to _any_ Human that went to history class.

"Under rule of the Council, as we were at the time, Artificial Intelligence is illegal. In order to enhance the Geth, we began to bolster their intelligence. Not enough to break the law, but enough to allow them to complete more complex tasks."

 _'By god if this isn't almost word for word what happened with Humanity'_ Haggard thought nodding slightly listening closely to Shala's story.

"The Geth, as they got together, began to connect. The more Geth in any one area, the smarter the collective was. The fewer, the dumber." This got Haggard interested, though he refused to interrupt. "We didn't think anything strange about this, damned we should've though, maybe things would've been different," Shala cursed herself with a shake of the head.

"Don't worry about what could've been, Shala. It won't do anything for you now."

Shala nods, steadying herself with a sigh before continuing "At one point, a Geth asked its handler "Does this unit have a soul?" which, of course, caused the handler to react. The Geth had become self-aware and, under Council Law, was illegal. We had to cover up."

 _'Ohhh no..'_

"The Geth got to us first. They slaughtered our ancestors, billions of them, and what few escaped became the Quarian people you know now. We tried, desperately, to get Council assistance in taking back our homeworld but they ignored us. Exiled us. Hated us. Now, we're no better than thieves to them. No assistance, constantly under threat from _something_ , and constantly in danger of death from a ship being destroyed, a filter shutting down, something."

"That's why we needed to mine here, Captain. Because my people, as much as I hate to say it, are _desperate_."

Haggard listened closely, nodding slightly, and when the end came, he sighed. "I understand why you were scared of the Geth gaining sentience, Humans were the same way with Mechanoids. But we didn't attack. They didn't attack us. Look where we are now."

Haggard held up a hand "I think your people went about it the _very_ wrong way, but like I said: There's no point in thinking on what could've been. Your people are desperate, correct? Always need supplies?" Shala nodded, shoulder stiff but her eyes shown to Haggard she was willing to listen.

"Maybe...Maybe, just fucking maybe," Haggard says rubbing his face deep in thought as he furrows his brow, eyes closed and a frown almost stuck to his features "Maybe I could convince the Alliance to help."

If Shala wasn't listening before, _she was now_. "Captain?"

"We're expanding. We have planets we've yet to do anything with, closer in our territory. Maybe, just maybe, I could convince the Alliance to, if not _give_ the planet, then let you settle there under a mixed jurisdiction."

"You would do that for us?" Shala asked, breathless.

"I did say I have a heart, didn't I?" Haggard said with a slight smile "And the Alliance is nothing if not a government of parallels. We gassed and tore apart Turians and then let them settle on the planet they invaded not months ago. I think they could find it in them to give a bunch of people who're constantly in danger of death a home."

"You said 'mixed jurisdiction', what do you mean?" Shala asked carefully.

"I mean you follow the rules of the Alliance and you go about as you please. Granted, I have no clue if it'd happen, but maybe."

"If your people would have us, Captain, we'd be forever in your debt."

"Just a merc with a heart, Shala." Haggard said with a slight smile "Now...I did promise supplies didn't I?"


	34. Riots and an apology

(Because either the site refuses to show the review or you simply removed the review, I'll go ahead and copy paste it, RG.

"RG:You are an illiterate baboon if I had to judge by the sheer number of grammatical mistakes that I have seen thus far."

I can resort to ad hominem attacks as well, if I so desired, RG. If you feel so strongly about my (sad) lack of knowledge on proper sentence structure and grammar, do me (and my viewers) a favor and hop off of anonymous reviewing, send me a message, and teach me, oh masterful sensei. I'd love to remedy whatever problem I'm causing you with how I write this story.

I've never made any promises that I'm a master of grammar. Ever. I can only promise that I'm going to try and make this story coherent and interesting for my viewers enjoyment. From the reviews I've gotten thus far, I seem to be doing an okay job.

Again, if you feel so strongly, do me a favor and drop some pointers. Otherwise, keep the ad hominem attacks to yourself and chew on some grammar books for me.

Onto the damned story.)

* * *

The Citadel was a metaphorical bloodbath, kept from being a _literal_ bloodbath by C-Sec's efforts, after the Council refused, with every air of 'Suffering deserved' aimed at the Batarians, to intervene against the Alliance in light of the ongoing expansion by the Terrans. The Terrans, either unknowing or uncaring of the Batarian opinion, expanded into 'rightly Batarian' space and already began to set up frontier colonies.

The Batarian enslavement, encompassing _every_ race possible, was a deeply ingrained part of their 'culture' and was like a barbed, poison coated thorn in the greater Galactic community's collective side. Yet no one, Gods forbid the _Council_ , did anything about it. Wether it be inability or simple lack of care for the situation, the Batarian slavery went on unmitigated.

The 'Terran Situation', as it quickly became known as, however, seemed to turn this situation on its nose and piledrive it.

Wherever the Terrans were blocked, Mercenaries would come through and wipe out the Batarian battleships with multi-ton slugs. The Terrans seemed to either not care, or regard the Batarians as pirates (not far from the truth, really) and thus not worth the time to decidate the _honest to God military on_.

This only irritated the Batarians even more.

C-Sec, batons and omni-shields in hand, battered back the Batarian rioters back firing rubber slugs from weakened mass driver weapons and smacking the metal tonfas into the four eyed rioters with a vengeance.

All across the wards, stores burned and were smothered in graffiti. Makeshift firebombs were used to cause more terror and were cast on the C-Sec riot police. Asari, natural biotics they are, used their talents to shield their fellow officers from thrown firebombs. Thus far, no one on the C-Sec side had died. Nor had Batarians, but multiple were crippled.

Advancing slowly, the Turian officers in a formation resembling a formation used by the ancient Human civilization the Romans. The formation being the Testudo. Shields raised over head and infront, the officers pressed the Batarians back with hails of rubber pellets and blocked firebomb attacks.

That's when one of the Batarians, wielding a smuggled weapon, found a crack in the Turian defense and fired.

The officer fell to the floor, a hole venting his skull.

The bloodbath had begun.

Now, C-Sec was out for blood just as the Batarians were as Martial Law was declared and the rifles had been broken out in full force.

Batarians by the score fell, seemingly inflamed by weapons, armor and incentive from either the Hegemony or 'agents' of the Hegemony. Either way, they fought back viciously. Graffiti on the walls reading "Council betrayed us!" "Racists!" "Batarian supremacy!" and others decorated the war-torn corridors of the Citadel wards.

With bullets whizzing overhead and too-professional-for-civilian Batarians bearing down on the C-Sec officers wielding wicked bladed gauntlets, with others wielding Batarian-made shotguns, a model that instead of simply shaving off chunks and sending it flying, shaves off semi-fragile _flechettes_ and sends those flying creating _horrendous_ wounds on flesh and light armor, the C-sec officers while disciplined, well-trained and most of them _military_ veterans, were fighting a tough fight. The flechettes, after impact, would shatter and bury themselves at odd angles within, creating various channels for blood to flow.

With no clotting material for them, the C-Sec officers were forced to avoid the shotgunners at all costs.

Batarians were nothing if not Brutal. Even Krogan had a sort of honor to the way they fought, they simply were stronger. Batarians had none. Whatever they could do to win a fight, they'd do it. Psychological terror was only apart of the repitoire of weapons the Batarians employed.

The Batarian brawlers, close now, used their bladed gauntlets and scourge flogs, barbed and jagged with razor sharp blades, tore into the C-Sec lines wherever they could. Either through adrenaline, shields, or armor, or something else entirely, the Batarians wouldn't die so easily and C-Sec suffered. Only utter decapitation, or destruction of the brain, killed these brawlers, or causing so much trauma to the body it eventually crumbles.

But the C-sec lines suffered for it.

Either way, the lines were close, the battle was hard, and indeed C-Sec pulled out no stops to slaughter what was left of the Batarians.

On the Batarian homeworld, Khar'Shan, this turn of events would be twisted something awful to 'show the racism of the Council's true face, the slaughter of good, innocent Batarian men, women, and children!' while C-Sec officers, many of which suffered wounds that, while not unhealable, were _extremely_ difficult to do so.

The wounds had been so severe, so bloody, some even _poisoned_ , that the C-Sec suffered numerous, fatal, casualties.

They were not aware, however, that their plight was felt by the very people who had inadvertantly _started_ the conflict in the first place.

* * *

"What do we do?" was the question asked by many a Terran scientist. They heard about the battles sparked on the Citadel because of the expansion the Alliance had been going through. About the deaths, the wounds, caused by it.

Terran medicine and Council medicine was different from eachother in many ways, and already Human mages were sent with guards to the Citadel with their own medicines to heal the wounded as best as possible.

But, they knew that something had to be made. Something fast. And made quick.

Council law dictated that biological modification and similar fields were illegal, to an extent, but the Terrans weren't held down by such a law.

The Terrans would do something to better their relations with the citadel, something to better medicine in general, and heal wounds quick.

Months upon months of furious research, number crunching, foreheads meeting oak desks, and testing and the Terrans had created a thick, viscous glue like substance that after many (painful) tests on one's own physical being, had created a 'cure' that would stop bleeding, creating a sort of glue like seal over a wound, and promote healing (partly magical, partly scientific) within minutes, rather than _hours_.

More serious wounds, however, would still require rest, relaxation, and easy going of it for the healing to finish.

Medigel. That's what the Terrans called it.

Creating it in large numbers ( _metric tonnes of gallons of the stuff)_ and sending a few pallets to the Citadel with another contingent of Healers, the Terrans were rather surprised at the feedback.

Instant hellfire approval.

The impact of the stuff was not lost on the Terrans, _far from it_ , but they knew: It would be good in war, too.

Looking Khar'Shan's way, the Terrans knew what was coming. Much as they _dearly_ wished it otherwise, Medigel would get a _true_ stress test.

Prayers to gods of any Terran religion still alive, and those even hidden away, were had as they seemed to know exactly what's happening. What was coming. They wished it wasn't so.

C'est la vie.

* * *

(Sorry for the short chapter, with much of it taken up by an irritated response, but I am very tired and rather irritated tonight. I just wanted to say, though, that normally I don't mind a review that's harsh. I don't mind someone calling me on my shit, I do it to _myself_ often, and it helps me grow as a writer.

"This is wrong, that's good, why's that the way it is, why are you the way you are", all these things help. All of you that've reviewed and _contributed to helping me better my writing_ are _instrumental_ to this story, and to my own ability as a writer. For example, if it wasn't for Indecisive Bob on the _first_ itteration of this story, I'd of kept going on as I was and _that_ was unacceptable.

If it wasn't for Natzi Sumbitch for telling me what's wrong with, for example, my arc for Theadra and Lukas, I wouldn't of started Insights which is going to focus on individual story arcs, snippets and mini-stories within Visions' universe.

Pacer287 with his kickass critique about the Turians, helping me to write better, more true-to-form Turians (I agree, previously I had _**awfully**_ written my favorite birds) who're obviously a big part of the story.

Adjuster, Observer, Indecisive Bob, Pacer287, Cold Blooded Canadian, Tootless is Best, and an inumerable others, my family, my friends here and other places, and my S.O. have inspired me to continue.

Now, your reviews massively help and I appreciate and welcome them all.

But, if I get reviews that're doing nothing but insulting and do nothing to better my writing (I don't mean jokes, I mean reviews like I stated above in the beginning), I'd rather those thoughts be kept to yourself. I like critique, I like _constructive_ critique, I like being told what I've done wrong and what I can do to improve future writing to make the story more enjoyable.

Reviews like above that resort to ad hominem attacks and _do nothing for the story_ are a waste of time and I have no patience for them.

Now that I've vented a fair amount of irritation at you, which I deeply _dearly_ apologize for, I'll end this tired chapter off and hopefully have more up soon. I just wanted to try and nip further insulting reviews in the bud before I get more.)


	35. Healing Visit

(Update: Changed my name, despised it. Now it's similar to my gamertag because I'm so imaginative)

(Heartless Guy: "Why does people seems to always wanted to help the quarian, exactly? I honestly coundn't care less, just curious. While the council did an injustice, it was their own ancestors that done the fuck up. They are portrayed as some helpless innocent shits while they are pretty much to blame for their own misfortunes."

I'm in agreement there, they did indeed fuck up something fierce, but the Council's utter denial of help for _three hundred years_ and the Quarians' biology that makes settling anywhere _but_ Rannoch for an extended period of time nearly impossible. Not fully, but nearly.

I also think it's because the Quarians don't do much to antagonize others, they're effectively gypsies but they just try to make it day to day.

Why people help, I think, is because they don't want the Quarian race to be wiped out. A ship filter fucks up, that's thousands of deaths. For a population in the billions, or trillions, this isn't much. For a population of a few million, every death is serious.

Mostly, it's sympathy that makes most help. Otherwise it could also be respect, or it could be to spite the Council, or it could be because "Fuck it I'm here aren't I?" or any other reason.

There's also that the Quarians don't live for 300 years. They most likely live _maybe_ 125 if they're lucky. The Quarians that did the fuck up are long gone, yet the Council bars them from any assistance.

There're alot of arguements for and against the Quarians, frankly.

Thanks for the review!)

* * *

While the Terran assistance was appreciated, the opinion by many was less than stellar. The Terran expansion, their denial of the Council's offer, their lack of information shared (despite the Council not sharing any either) and other reasons caused many to give the Terrans the cold shoulder. Human and Mechanoid alike, despite being there to assist, were shrugged off by many.

Others, those wounded, welcomed them cautiously until they began to work their magic (literally in many cases) in which case they were fully welcomed.

They couldn't turn down healing, not with the worry of Batarian rioters and terrorists always there, and thus when the healers all dressed in white and red came with their guards to the stuffed hospitals with their new medigel in tow.

* * *

The sticky glue substance applied to the Asari's wounded flesh was ice cold to the touch, causing her to hiss, before it began to warm considerabley, regulating the temperature. The Human mage, wearing an armored chest piece of white ceramic with a red cross emblazoned upon the front. The mage was light skinned, short haired, and seemed to be young. 20, if the Asari had to guess, but already hard at work in his field.

The mage weaved the strange power in his hands like a spinnerette with a thread, seeming to create warm threads of pure, healing power. The gold/white threads passed over other wounds, those less grievous and not deserving of the miracle material that is Medigel.

The Asari watched entranced as, almost painlessly, the threads danced into her flesh and out the other side, then were turned around with a flick of the mage's fingers this way and that. Like stitches, the magic weaved her flesh and muscle tissue together before with a motion not unlike the flourish of finishing off a pretty ribbon bow the Mage was finished. Her wound was gone, completly, although the dull pain left still remained and was quickly soothed with a warm caress of his index and middle finger, the glowing power radiating from the fingers warm like a caring touch.

The pain ebbed away, replaced by stamina returning quickly from the magical touch.

A quick glance checked the medigel, seeing her muscle tissue stitching together in a most fascinatingly quick manner. With the assistance of extra magic, the wound was healed more, though other patients called for his attention as his fellow healers were hard at work.

A quick smile, he spoke up finally "Just keep pressure off your leg and take it easy, you'll be fine by the end of the week," and he was gone. The skirt like extensions of his armor, bone white, were cut to not restrict his legs, though seemed to hold other utensils such as synthetic diamond scalpels, forceps, and other material in the front. The back of the skirt was bordered with a red trim interlaced with gold designs.

The Asari watched her leg stitch itself together before her very eyes with utter fascination etched deeply into her being.

By the end of the week?

The doctors figured a month, at best.

* * *

The C-Sec officers and the Terran guards, seeming to be a mishmash of different alliances within as a few of them wore the olive drab armor of the American alliance, the medium-blue of the European Union, and atleast three of them wore the grey, riveted plate of the Nordic National Alliance, watched eachother cautiously.

One side was making sure that none of their own got more hurt, the other made sure of similar, just with a more direct way of doing it as the Terrans openly palmed their weapons when they caught C-Sec eyes on them with a 'Don't do it' look across their faces (that weren't hidden, anyway) causing the atmosphere to thicken between them.

"Alright, enough with the angry glares," Ordered a woman with blond hair and blue eyes, a scar marring her face as she stared down the menagerie of Terran soldiers whom instantly stood at attention and pulled their eyes from the alien guards whom pulled their gaze from the similarly alien soldiers and to the alien commander who wore navy blue armor bordered with gold.

Her armor, like all Terran metal/armor work, was either decorated with rivets or the round bulges in symmetric areas of the armor actually did a service. Which, the C-Sec officers couldn't be sure. Her armor was a broad chestpiece that, unlike most chest pieces found outside Terran space, was neither hammered into shape nor moulded in. Instead, it was the same uniform shape as the soldiers she commanded.

Something the Turians, atleast, had to admire.

Her armor bore a collar, extending up to the back of her neck and tapering down slightly in the front. At the highest point, the collar extended just slightly under her lower lip.

The pauldrons of her armor, like almost all Terran armor, were angular and squareish and bent down at sharp angles in layered material. Unlike armors created in Council space, Terran armors were _not_ very formfitting and indeed were somewhat 'one size fits all' with adjustable straps of leather fitted with thick steel or iron buckles and links.

The flat part of her pauldrons, closest to the collar of her armor, bore what appeared to be the image of a kraken, with wild and evil eyes in its cephalopodic form, burning into the eyes of those whom saw it as it wrapped its many tentacles around an anchor. The upper form of the (hopefully) mythical giant seemed to fade into the stars.

The gauntlets of her armor seemed to be hiding a weapon within them. If the C-sec had to guess, a shotgun.

Each.

Terrans.

A closer look at the legs, arms, and even waist showed that the Human had (supportive hips, so thought some of the Turians) an exoskeleton attached. Hidden from view, under the hair that barely made it to her chin length, was a neuroreader. While her helmet was currently hooked onto her left hip, once attached she'd have full use of her armor's systems.

The human kept the gaze of her soldiers for a moment before turning the calculating look on the aliens "Who among you is senior?"

A Salarian, much to her surprise, stepped forward. His skin color was light green on the underside with darker on the back, large eyes scrutinized the woman a thousand miles a second, as Salarians do, before he saluted.

"Lieutenant Rozan Verban, ma'am. Fine to meet you," the Human had to be honest that she was surprised that it was a _Salarian_ of all people that came forward, but she wasn't in the mood to question it.

"You too, Lieutenant. Captain Hannah Shepard, USS _Omaha_. I've been sent to oversee my people's assistance here."

"So you're the one with the Battleship parked outside," Razon said amazingly casual "I should've figured, from your armor."

"I try. Have my people given yours any trouble?"

"Aside from smouldering glares that bely a romantic interest? None, Ma'am." Hannah laughed at that.

"Good. Could we?" Hannah motioned for him to follow, to speak privately, to which Razon nodded "Yes, Ma'am. Lead the way." He turned to his men and pointed at the floor "Hold the line. Watch the door, make sure it doesn't walk away."

"Yes, sir."

"Similar for you all. Any Batarian comes here, warn them away. They try to force their way in, you know what to do."

"Yes, Ma'am!" Replied the Terrans, in differing languages.

Razon and Hannah walked away, the view to the wards of the massive station was amazing to say the least even with the fires of riots glowing within.

"You wished to speak, ma'am?" Razon asked, speaking quickly as Hannah learned all Salarians do.

"Mostly I wanted to ask how everything's going, Lieutenant," Hannah replies as she watches over the distant riot scenes with the ghost of a frown "May seem a dumb question, but still."

"It is if you don't mind my saying so ma'am," Razon replies casually as he blinks a couple times "The rioters are Batarians. What that means to you I don't know, but it means alot for us. Batarians have always been arrogant, those allowed to come off of Khar'shan, anyway. Always strutted about, looking as though they're picking out produce at a shop. To be honest, they most likely were," Hannah rose a brow at Rozan for that comment receiving an incline of the horned head.

"Batarians are incorrigible slavers, Ma'am," Hannah's shoulders immediately tensed "They've always been. They frequently raid frontier council worlds, although they use proxy mercenaries and pirates for 'plausible deniability' so they can't be directly blamed, though the culprits are obvious."

"The Council just allowed it to happen?" Hannah asks, tone as serious as the grave "Why didn't they do anything about it? The Destiny Ascension is massive enough," the Asari dreadnaught indeed was a titanic ship, though of strange design.

" So called 'plausible deniability' ma'am, the Council can't do anything about it if they have no solid evidence. Despite everyone knowing who did it." Hannah shook her head slowly causing her blonde hair to bob slightly.

Razon watched Hannah from the corner of one of his huge eyes, taking in her reaction.

"You disapprove," It wasn't a question.

"You don't?" Hannah asked as she turned her gaze to Razon fully, brows furrowed.

"Never said I didn't," Razon answered simply.

"Slavery was abolished worldwide a long time ago. My own people did so a few hundred years ago, now. We've learned, through a long time of teaching and simple moral knowledge, that slavery is wretched. Wrong. Not to be tolerated. That the Council does, and don't give me that plausible deniability bullshit, makes them just as guilty as the Batarians in my eyes."

Razon nodded slowly, Hannah couldn't read him as his face was neutral, but his eyes blinked slowly as he took a deep breath.

"You Terrans are a strange people, you know," Rozan began "You gassed the Turians, a war crime by all accounts," he noticed Hannah's mouth twitch into a frown, just slightly "Then you heal them and offer them a place to live on the very colony they invaded. Then you all but give the proverbial middle finger to the Council and the Batarians and tell them where to stick it, and now you're here to heal people. You're confusing."

"That's how we work. We'll kill you, then heal the rest and retain our independence. Ain't that something?" Hannah said sarcastically getting a smirk from Rozan, the first facial expression in a bit that she'd gotten from him.

"Indeed."

"What're your people going to do about the Batarians?" This got an exasperated sigh from Rozan as he opened his omni-tool and flicked through the holographic interface quickly. Hannah had to hide her disdain for the tool, for the sake of the situation.

"The Batarians are hidden deep in the various nooks and crannies of the Wards. This station is a labyrinth of hidey holes for criminals and we're constantly trying to root them out where possible. We tried non-lethal tactics, which failed when the Batarians went lethal themselves, and killed many of our officers." Hannah's head inclined slightly, eyes closed, as she offered a silent prayer.

"I'm sorry for your people's deaths, Lieutenant."

"Don't be, you didn't directly cause their deaths. The Batarians have always seen themselves entitled to space, yet the Council restricted us from doing anything to stop their slaving rings and frequent law breaking aside from some arrests that were cut off soon after."

Lieutenant Razon leaned in close to Hannah, whom leaned in slightly as well, and had to resist raising her brow when Razon whispered "Do not hold back on the Batarians. They deserve every inch of it."

Hannah nodded slightly "I'll keep that in mind, Lieutenant. I have Marines ready to go, should you need them. The Nordic Alliance even brought along a few Stormtroopers, if you need them," The Stormtroopers in question just one of many fearsome Sturmtruppen units, aggressive blitzkrieg units dedicated to finding, breaking, and routing their targets with smoke grenades, shotguns and batons.

Razon rose his brow at this, thinking as he hmmed to himself and held his hand on his chin "I may have need of them, in places we can't spare officers. If this Nordic Alliance wouldn't mind assisting."

"They offered! They're good at what they do, so why not offer?" Hannah left out the part of wanting to better relations between the Alliance and the Council on purpose.

"I'll think about it and pass it to the Executor, Thank you Captain," Rozan saluted.

"My pleasure, Rozan," Hannah saluted back and shook his hand.

Rozan and Hannah went back to their people, the wounded inside healing already with the application of medigel and magic. The Terran and C-Sec officers seemed to lessen their stand-offishness toward eachother as well, showing eachother weapons and such or comparing armors until they stood at attention when their commanding officers returned.

Deep inside the Citadel, the Batarians burned with hatred as they planned. Where they couldn't find weapons, they'd make them by taking parts from hovercars, pieces of pipe and kitchen utensil, creating makeshift armor where official armor couldn't be found or stolen or bought from black market merchants hidden in the underbelly of the station.

On the _Omaha_ , men and women of multiple alliances prepared for the time they may be called to service on the alien station. Wether it be to support the C-Sec, or should the Council take exception to their presence..against them.

The Terrans prayed the Council had a brain shared between the three of them.


	36. Codex: AoT Government and Military

(Hey everyone! Observer01 offered me the question of just how the hell are the Alliance made up. So, I thought I'd explain it. Ontop of that, Observer01 said that others may be interested in a Codex or similar. So, here we go! Thanks Observer!)

(This codex is directly copied from my messages with Observer01, so I may well have accidentally left in parts where I refer to myself and will refer to the canon. As such, don't take this codex as being an Alliance-made codex and just one I'm making myself. Cheers!)

* * *

The Alliance Government is an elected parliament, using either ambassadors or the very leaders of a certain nation (or, if applicable, an entire Alliance bloc, like that of the African nations) to represent the interests of that nation within an Alliance. From here, the decisions are made. Planets are shared by interested alliances, whom carve out their borders (and claim unsettled territories) in the 'arena' of politics, and then are responsible for the development of that territory like a nation on Earth.

The military is a bit of a tougher one, but basically it goes that a certain alliance is either responsible for a certain planet, usually the one with the most territory, or just has the most concentrated military there (Which, if able, any Alliance power that has a territory on that planet will atleast have a self defense force to ensure security), or if a planet is owned by a certain Alliance then they are responsible for its protection.

General Abbot and Captain Logan are Americans, Mercy, Yellowjacket, and Hydra are American ships, but often have members of their allied nations on with them (as a sign of good will) and Hannah Shepard's ship, the Omaha, has Nordic members because they're most adept with urban combat.

The Military isn't as unified as the Systems Alliance in canon, because in canon, the Systems alliance abolishes nations and makes Earth one unified thing. In Visions, this isn't the case. There're still distinct national borders, identities, etc. but most are like "Screw it we're Terrans!" When it comes to most things (granted Security is not one of them: everyone has to go through checks before coming in to another nation).

The Alliances all have a sort of unified army, pooled from the nations/blocs within. For example, the American Alliance has an army pooled of Mexicans, Americans, and Canadians while those respective nations maintain their independent armies/military constructs.

The way the Alliance parses out planets is like I said before: With negotiation and maneuvering. Interested Alliances will vie for their territories, negotiating borders and such with another Alliance and then internal borders with the powers within that Alliance.

After all is settled and done, frontiersmen are sent for the planet in question. New territory can be settled and claimed after, which may come to blows with some frontiersmen, but must be negotiated with the Parliament.

Alliance powers can, and often do, cooperate with eachother when it comes to military matters (Shanxi for example wasn't settled only by the North American Alliance, it was settled by others as well, I simply focused on the NAA) such as the Omaha, Mercy, etc. Each nation within an Alliance still retains independence, they just work with their friend nation in the Alliance (and others as well) which means no one nation must follow everything the other does. It's just generally a group effort, but keeps the individuality.

The Alliance does their politics with a sort of electoral college or act like a democracy, some Alliances have certain allies which may throw their weight in with them and give more power to that Alliance. So they could have an Alliance power vote for them on their behalf.

* * *

Bloc: A bloc is a body of countries that in order to reduce the strain on logistics, uses the most powerful nation in that bloc to represent its joined might. Like main body Alliances, blocs pool personnel together, which are then used for the collective Alliance's personnel. An Alliance's own military will have standard armor, weapons, vehicles and the like so that an Alliance isn't logistically confused. For example, the North American Alliance uses many weapons made in the USA. The BAR, M2s, etc.

An Alliance Bloc (when multiple nations are in one alliance, for example the European nations,) is for simplicities sake. Individuals in these bloc militaries will usually wear the symbol of the Alliance, and then the flag of their nation, for representation.

When an Alliance settles a territory, the nations within (or bloc) may choose their own territory in that. A self defense force comprised of personnel from that Alliance/bloc is used as a police force and military presence.

Alliances will often share personnel on a military craft (to an extent, they often restrict access to sensitive areas for national security) such as _Mercy_ is an Alliance vessel and thus holds Mexican, American, and Canadian personnel.

A bloc (Such as the African nations) have their own presidents, or elected official, that can either act as ambassador in Alliance parliament or can elect an ambassador (often times its the former, however)

* * *

(Updated!)

* * *

(There's me feeling smart, RightHandOfPalpatine corrected me. Apparently most nations DO still exist. I suppose the Visions canon follows the SA canon more closely than I thought :D Now for me to hit myself with a 2x4 for not looking my info up correctly. Thanks man! I appreciate it, I'd of felt a dipstick if I went on not knowing.)


	37. Cell Destruction

_'Fuck that was close!'_ Sivius hissed as a flechette whizzed directly over his head, his unit in cover behind what remained of their aircrars while Batarians launched shell after shell of buzzing flechettes at their location. The other side of his cover was a shattered wreck like a burned procupine as the superheated flechettes rapidly cooled from the lack of flesh contact.

They had just only got knocked out of the sky, already hell was breaking.

"Sergeant!" hollered Private Alya as she, herself, dodged a flechette shell "What in the Goddess' name do we do?" the Asari frowned as her pistol overheated causing it to beep loudly and hiss with steam. Sivius growled as he peeked over the top again to look at the Batarians set up down the way.

They wore makeshift armor, the lot of them clearly not high rank enough to get the better armor, and wore slightly weaker shield generators than the C-Sec could get but none the less were powerful enough to absorb a shot and stop their guts from meeting the floor.

Patchwork ceramics, metal, and pieces of bundled clothing protected the Batarians as they fired at the officers in cover, keeping them suppressed. A turret was set up at the far end, punching holes in the aircar. Soon, they'd be through. The turret was set up behind makeshift barricades, makeshift flags of the Batarian Hegemony set up.

"Do we have any grenades?" Sivius asked as he ducked down again, dodging a flechette narrowly.

"No! Our grenades were used up even trying to pull them from their position."

"Fuuuuck!" Sivius glared at the rifle in his hand before looking around at the officers under his command causing his mandibles to flutter in thought when he saw them looking to him for guidance.

 _'I'm their leader. They look up to me.'_ Sivius sighed, checked his rifle, then looked at Alya sternly "Private!"

"Sergeant?"

"You're an Asari, a natural biotic," Sivius said, laying out the plan for her as she brightened up with a nod "Can you lift an aircar?"

"With difficulty, sir, but yes," Alya nodded as she holstered her pistol.

"Do it. Lift the car, just off the ground, and propel it at them. Smear them across the floor!"

"Yes, sir!" Alya crouched and with alot of focus, grunted as biotic power flowed all around her and lifted the aircar off the ground just a bit.

Growling, face scrunched as sweat began to drip down her forehead, Alya sent the aircar forward at incredible speed barreling at the Batarians.

The Batarians screeched as the car screamed forward, slamming just before them stopped by their barricade and smashing the turret they had. The C-Sec officers ran forward, unfettered by suppressive fire, and jumped over the destroyed aircar.

Without remorse, they put two in the head of every Batarian that fell. They were alive, after the car, but the officers made sure to correct that mistake.

"Pick up their weapons, we could use them." Sivius ordered.

His officers picked up the weapons, heavy weapons a mix of mass effect technology and non-standard powder firearms. Firing a sabot shell through the rails of a mass effect powered barrel, which using a smart computer would open the sabot sending the flechettes outward at blistering speeds delivering destructive kinetic power ontop of the splintering flechettes within.

Effectively, shotguns.

"Squint bastards," hissed one of Sivius' officers.

"They'll get theirs," agreed another.

"It's the Terrans that caused this!" Alya frowned as she kicked a Batarian's dead hand away "The Batarians were always arrogant but never to attack."

"Tell that to the slaves, Alya," Sivius reminded as he ordered the advance.

Alya huffed as she followed, fellow officers agreeing on both sides.

The Terran expansion was disputed by _everyone_ on the Citadel and off. The implications sent everyone, Council and otherwise, reeling as the Terrans had a brutally honest and brutally uncaring way of doing things. They saw something that offended them, they'd either shrug it off if minor or outright smash it with a hammer if it was something major. They also had little of a filter, as if a Terran disliked you, most would outright say so.

For a society so used to 'peace', it was a shock.

For the Batarians, it was the spark needed for the dried forest of Batarian patriotism. A wildfire burned in all of them, caused by Terran honesty, and now the C-Sec suffered for it, as did the populace.

Sivius couldn't hate the Terrans. Really he couldn't. A brutally honest people, but one that'll outright cross shields with those wronged, and turn blade on those doing the wrong.

The Council, at times, could do the same. They weren't always unfair, indeed the Council was a fair government, but they were glacially slow in many respects. Sivius respected the Council. He wouldn't be a C-Sec officer otherwise. He just wished that the Council would see it: They fucked up. Sivius just prayed to the Spirits that the Council would _work_ with the Terrans with this problem.

* * *

The C-Sec officers ran through the corridors with a purpose, finding disposed of suits of ceramic piecemeal and shattered, low quality weaponry.

That's when they found it.

That's when it happened.

 _Ambush._

Alya rose her barriers instantly, biotics casting a shield over her fellow officers as flechettes impacted it, but the Batarians popped out from the sides and began brawling with the C-sec officers up close and personal.

Clubs of metal impacted riot armor, causing no real damage. The Turian officers using their talons, hissing threateningly as they clawed out the eyes of the Batarians and slashed at their flesh. Blackish blue blood covered the dark blue uniforms and armor of the officers as the hall slushed with blood and ribbons of flesh.

On order, Alya pushed forward with the shield arisen as a squad of officers advanced with her.

Sivius saw one of his officers' skulls being split open by a heavy knife as he fought fiercely, Batarians trying to kill him as he was the commander and they knew it. The Batarian hammered down on the flat spine driving the knife further in as the officer screamed in pain, convulsing as she attempted to push the Batarian away.

"Stop! Sto-o-o-op!" Her cries were silenced by the blade being jerked out and driven into her throat and twisted with a jet of blue blood.

She fell, dead, in terror.

The Batarian's eyes fixed on Sivius and Sivius knew there was nothing right about that look. Nothing denoting a true consciounce inside that head. Nothing denoting a once civilian inside that mind.

* * *

The Batarian screamed inside his own head, pounding at the inside of his vision like beating a glass wall as he saw the Turian's head be split open and throat opened brutally. The blood splashed onto his face as he hollered unheard.

"Stop! Stop!" he said in time with the Turian as tears of fear and despair streaked down his face "I don't want to do this! Don't make me do it!" He dropped to his knees, his physical body stock still as it locked onto the Turian commander whose expression was one of utter fury.

Choking out a cry, the Batarian begged "Please! Don't make me do it! Kill me! Please! I don't want to do it!" The Batarian was once a merchant, an honest one, that escaped Khar'shan with his life and kept silent.

He just wanted to trade goods.

"I don't want to do it!" He begged.

"Kill me!"

* * *

"I'll kill you, Turian!" The Batarian roared, showing his mouthful of razor sharp, needle teeth as he swung the blu soaked blade around wildly.

The Turian roared his own hissing scream of fury as the two collided, a flurry of talons and gore slick blade as they tore at eachother. Inside, the Batarian begged, screamed as his will was held by something inside. Something ugly, something unworldly, something not meant to be. Like a puppet on strings of blood-like energy, the Batarian was a flurry of anger.

Sivius' face was cut multiple times, leaking blue blood from the plated skin as he struck multiple times on the Batarian wretch with all his might and fury for seeing his people, his subordinate, killed in such a wretched way and by such a lowlife.

The Batarian's eyes, finally, were gouged out as Sivius gained the upper hand and brutally smashed, cut, and mauled the Batarian's face.

Inside, the Batarian screamed relief..but felt his consciousness be drained into that blood-like energy.

Another soul captured by the puppetmaster.

* * *

The Batarian cell was ragtag, set upon by enraged biotics and officers alike whom seemed to forget their weapons as they hacked apart the Batarian terrorists in a bloody swathe of righteousness.

Enraged by the loss of their friends, the officers spared no one and gave no show of mercy as the Batarians were hacked apart, shot apart, and blown apart in disgusting displays.

What the officers didn't know is after they left, they fed something so much worse.

Something away, far away, from the Citadel.

Something centered on one planet in particular.

The corpses were fed upon by beasts like rats, spawning from everywhere and nowhere.

The officers never saw them.

Nor did they ever leave that cell.

* * *

"They're there, aren't they," said a Blackwatch cleric, a sad expression on his face as he looked at the Citadel mournfully. It wasn't a question.

"They are," replied an operative, a veteran.

"Will we be called?" asked the Cleric.

"We must be. The Citadel will fall otherwise."

"And if the Citadel falls.."

"So too does much of the Galactic community."

"We must go in."

"We will. In time."

"We will not fail in our mission,"

"It won't be ours, Cleric. This will be left to the Witch Hunters."

The Cleric's face froze, but then slowly melted into understanding.

"I understand. There's more there than just the small ones."

"It's feeding there." replied the veteran.

"The Witch Hunters will do their duty and do it well."

* * *

(Don't worry, the Council will get their shit together in the next chapter or so. They're gonna pull their heads from eachothers' asses and see the light..dark...yes.)


	38. Cleanse them

"Where there's one there's a thousand there's a hundred thousand, Goddess curse the Batarians!" Tevos threw a particularly expensive vase at the wall, reading the reports of _demons_ eating corpses and only getting stronger. C-sec was being beaten back or were KIA, or worse..captured.

Tevos didn't want to know what happened to those captured.

"The situation is dire," Valern nodded grimly pacing.

"Security is being annihilated," Sparatus snarled as his talons drew gouges in the railing he leaned on.

"The station is in utter lockdown," Tevos mourned as she shook with fury.

"The Alliance. Call the damned Alliance," Sparatus swallowed his pride and looked up to the two shocked councilors with him. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wanted to smack the both of them one.

"You're serious?"

"What else are we going to do?" Sparatus demanded exasperated, omni-tool data showing up on a screen at his command "Look! _Look!_ " They did indeed look. The sight was awful. Entire blocks of the wards were burning, decimated by Batarian/C-Sec fighting and now likely infested with the demons.

"The Alliance have shown they have exeprience in this field, this strange field. Call them. Otherwise we lose the station! We cannot lose this station and I refuse to _let us_ lose this station."

It didn't take long for Tevos and Valern to agree.

* * *

The rythmic thumping of rubber boots on the ground met the battered C-sec as Stormtroopers of the NNA, armed with weapons ranging from carbines to belt-feds to shotguns and more than one _power armored_ trooper wielding what could only be called a buzzsaw, as later accounts would call it, judging from the sound.

The stormtroopers set to work immediately. Their superior armor, weapons, and dedicated military training pushed Batarian terrorists back to their hovels as healerrs, armed with magic and medigel, set to work on the wounded.

But the Stormtroopers, as majestic and terrifying they were, were but the frontmen of the assault.

All across the citadel, dropships deployed men and women in black and white armor, carrying weapons that some would call primitive. Crossbows, maces (some of which were _incense burners_ fortified for combat) and hammers were among their repitoire along with silver stakes, wooden mallets, and axes. Their further projectile weapons included grenade launchers fed by box with silverflame grenades.

Almost all of them carried containers of blessed water and salt, the incense burners smoking as the clerics and, in many's word, Inquisitors walked the empty halls of a once bustling trade route.

The demons screeched at their approach, rats to the slaughter as they attempted to attack only to be cleansed by fire as the Witch hunters carrying the incense burning maces swung them around in wide arcs, the flame intensifying and sending the demon repelling smoke into the horde paralyzing many. The flames intensified further, and further, and further until the flame was considerable and the flame magic was released cleansing those that had been stuck by the smoke.

 _Wumf wumf wumf wumf wumf_ was the sound as the smoke filled the air, the Blackwatch seeing through it clear as day with their technology while the Clerics did their duty.

The Blackwatch continued on, sending silverflame grenades into areas rife with the beasts they hunted. In areas indicated by the clerics, robed in long almost priestly uniform as their faces were hidden by their hoods assisted further by the emotionless silver masks they wore, the Blackwatch created a line of salt, then blessed with the silverflame grenades.

The screaming inside could only be described as hellish as the beasts attempted to escape, blocked by their inability to count the salt and their fear of the flame sticking to them and burning their very being from the mundane world.

They continue, men and women on a mission.

All across the station, Blackwatch Inquisitors would burn the demons from their hovels and feasts and to any innocent straggler left to see the spectacle could only be described as grim angels cleaning the station with their white flame weapons and incense maces.

Ambushing a squad, a group of Batarians (posessed, as the Blackwatch learned quickly) attacked with reckless abandon and received the same in kind.

Hammers swung with deadly efficiency, smashing bones and rending flesh as their sharp buttspikes were driven in deep and wrenched out, dispatched many but not all as some tried to fight even with loss of limb..or loss of a part of their skull.

 _"Posessed_ ," hissed one of the Blackwatch as the greymatter plopped from the Batarians' bifurcated skull, the body still flailing wildly to attack its target.

The body was burned, finally allowing (hopefully) the once owner to have some form of peace.

Again and again and again the Blackwatch continued ever deeper into the bowels of the station. More and more, the once clean and now destroyed streets gave way to dank messes and then, full on hellish landscapes.

They ignored it, as they'd seen it many a time elsewhere, and instead focused on the source.

A growth, a sick, malign growth, spawned from ever continuing suffering endured by the captured C-sec officers, was slowly taking over the station.

With a practiced ease, the Blackwatch burned the growth as they continued, bathed in the white flames of their weaponry as smoke continued down the corridor wafted forward by the incense hammers' continuous motion.

* * *

They found it.

They found the source.

The room, cavernous, was covered in the sick of multicolored entrails and pumping with blood as a rip in the veil was held open by ever screaming C-sec officers begging for a release they were unsure would ever come.

The veil, torn as it was, rippled as it attempted to close itself off.

Upon closer inspection, the C-sec officers weren't merely stuck. Proboscis stuck into the back of their skulls fed them images of their worst fears. Over, and over, and over again, feeding the terror of the officers into the tear, held aloft by a sick mound of corpses and still living bodies.

"Something semi-intelligent has come through," deduced the Cleric, hammer swinging endlessly as the fire intensified and thusly the smoke.

"I can only sense this one," answered a battlemage confirming the Cleric's thoughts.

"The Veil is not weak enough to let more in besides rats."

"We have to kill the creator, then."

As if on cue, an abomination made itself known. This thing, like a worm with many many legs, crawled on the wall and floor alike, coiling itself around its nest to hiss a warning at the Blackwatch who readied themselves.

The worm had a body like coiled muscle injected with gellatin, ever coiling and roiling in on itself while the face was a lamprey maw of ever moving, obscene teeth of jagged bone. Pincers flanked the maw, growing obscenely from a structure not there within and moving like the mocking fingers of a human.

The creature, sensing the Blackwatch's purpose, shook in anger and with a boom, landed fully on the floor, causing the officers and what remained of the bodies on the mound screamed at the noise and remembrance of the monster that put them in such a fate.

The Blackwatch spread out to confuse the beast, the Cleric spinning his mace around like a man posessed throwing smoke and fire out causing the monster to scream in anger, a piercing shriek of a sound that made him wince.

It lunged for him, missing when he dodged and brought the hammer down on the worm with all his might causing the muscle to sizzle and burn with the contact before it turned its disgusting head around and smacked at him.

The cleric's screams were silenced when the monster's maw swallowed him down its gullet of razors.

The Blackwatch, infuriated by the loss of their friend, threw themselves into the fight.

SIlverflame grenades were sent at the beast, some doing little and some more than others, as the material stuck to the body of the monster cooking its obscene flesh and gellatinous form even as it was struck by hammer, by quarrel and by the fury of a Battlemage's summoned weaponry.

Yet it didn't fall, indeed it whipped around like a top throwing multiple operatives against the wall.

"The Veil! Close the Veil!" Hollered the Battlemage as he used swords created of spectral power to slice at the beasts' flesh causing oozing pus to leak from it. He narrowly avoided sharing the Cleric's fate.

The crossbow armed Witch Hunter sent bolts into the heads of the officers, tipped with silver, killing the proboscis dug in and finally releasing the poor bastards from their fate and hopefully to the awaiting hands of whatever god they worshipped.

The worm screeched as the Veil closed, its very purpose destroyed while the Witch Hunters used silver stakes, hammers, and spectral weaponry to attack.

The pus was flung about as the beast whipped its massive body around in a rage, the ground shaking from the incredible weight as its seemingly millions of feet crawled it around in response to the various threats, attempting and failing to target them all.

Infuriated, the monster found purchase in swinging its maw as it smashed one of the hammer-wielding Hunters into the wall where he lay unmoving.

It tried the same tactic again, receiving a silverflame grenade in the face for the collective trouble, causing it to scream.

"Its mouth! Aim for the mouth!"

When it tried again to swing, a silverflame grenade was shot down its throat.

The holy flame cooked it from the inside out, causing the white flame to erupt from its maw before it fell, dead.

There was movement in the stomach, however.

The Battlemage, a spectral sword hovering as though held in hand, slit the stomach open spilling entrails..and the Cleric.

The cleric stood with assistance, entrails and bile stuck to his form as he righted his mask. "I'd prefer.." The cleric began as he wiped himself, futiely, of the sick "If we kept this to ourselves." The fell hammer was retrieved, and later burned in funeral, after the hive was destroyed.

All across the station, the fighting was wretched, but the hives began to be cleared out.

The Stormtroopers, as well, were finding plentiful purchase on Batarian terrorists now that the demons were being beaten back.

* * *

The shots pinged off of the Stormtroopers' armor uselessly, the flechettes doing nothing to the thick plated steel, as he and his troop ran forward with shotguns in hand, taking aim at any poor Batarian that would poke his head up (and swiftly be relieved of it) and moving onto the next, often having to slamfire (hold down the trigger and rack the pump repeatedly) to score all the terrorists in sight as the buck and ball projectiles tore them apart.

Surrender was not taken, in the rare times it was offered, instead those attempting were simply seen as targets without a means to attack. For what they'd done, none of the Stormtroopers felt mercy. They only felt disgust. Attacking innocents and officers of the law, wretched.

The Stormtroopers, grey suited men with stahlhelme adorned heads and masks hiding their faces as eyes peered out with glaring red glowing optics struck fear into the Batarians mere moments before their lives, their consciousness, was torn from them at the hand of an angry Stormtrooper and the application of 12g shot.

Quickly, swiftly, the Batarian scum was cleansed from the Citadel as was the demonic taint.

The Council could no longer ignore the problems facing them, not that the Alliance would allow them..nor would the populace.

Peace was all well and good until slavers run rampant, demons invade and a foreign power must clean your mess.

The Stormtroopers, clean of blood and gore they wore not hours ago like a sick dress, marched back onto their ships with gifts from thankful populace and salutes from officers of the law.

All through the shambled wards, the stink of gunpowder was thick, the miasma of death cleansed by silverflame's cleansing fires.

The Alliance, despite not being asked, sent crews aboard the Citadel to speed the recovery along.

More and more, the Alliance was looking like a rather great alternative for some of the disgruntled populace.

The Council, reeling from the attack, was comforted somewhat by the Alliace's declaration that while independent, they had no intention of leaving the seat of galactic power to be overtaken.

The hidden warning was clear: Get your shit together.

The Council made sure that this would be the case.


	39. Talk with the Inquisitor

The healers' magic was aglow of gold/white power, the aura of healing radiating through the medical clinics as with care they tended to those wounds hard to heal by magic, or those not by medigel, the neutral masks betraying the healers' own content with their duty, seeing wounds stitching together quickly from the combination of magic, medigel, and the skilled hands of the operatives.

News casters tried to enter the clinics, to interview the medics and clerics and warriors, but were ignored by the healers and clerics within whom were unbothered due to the warriors' intervention keeping the news mongrels at bay.

"Begone, this isn't for your ratings," growled one of the soldiers whom was unmasked, his platinum blonde hair and ice blue eyes, along with his physique, made many Blackwatch instantly recognize him as Nikulas.

"People deserve to see who helped them," reasoned an Asari newscaster whom had a small drone hovering next to her, a light shone on Nikulas who ignored the annoying machine for now. "They've just gone through an incredibly traumatic period in their lives by creatures they've never seen before until the Terrans showed up. Tell me, Human, why is that exactly?" The Asari's annoyingly accusative tone made one of the warriors with Nikulas huff a chuckle as he tapped his fingers against the shotgun he held in hand.

"The Others have always been with you, Asari. You've never been without them. You merely wanted to forget they were there, we simply shined a light on them." Nikulas' brutally honest answer made the Asari recoil and her drone turn to her with light of the new development causing its programming to seek her out.

Recovering from the news the Asari looked up at Nikulas, whom towered over her, and asked "What do you mean 'shined a light on it'? They only showed up _after_ your people came here." The drone turned to Nikulas again.

"That _you_ know, ignorant," Nikulas scowled "Your people undoubtedly have demons in your mythologies, things that go bump in the night that instilled horror in your ancestors," the Asari's face was all the evidence Nikulas needed "Don't play stupid with me Asari, I'm far more observative than you may think and I've been around for alot longer than you may expect. I know what happens in the dark, I know what skulks there," Nikulas leaned in close to the Asari whom with all her strength resisted taking a step back "You just play stupid to them."

* * *

"Explain to me, _exactly_ , Inquisitor," Tevos paced before the red robed inquisitor whom watched her closely, the other councilors with her (and a retinue of guards) as they watched the Inquisitor for any sign of deception "Why did these things, The Others, only appear _after_ your people came onto our station?" The Inquisitor was irritatingly calm, collected and let the councilor get hers in before he spoke, a voice of silver smooth calm.

"You forgot they were there. The Turians invaded one of the Terran worlds and interrupting the cleansing protocol where we would of cleaned out the Vampires, sealed up sensitive areas with our magic, and made the world safer for colonization. _You_ called us here, failed to handle the Batarian slavery, and brought this _upon yourselves_ , Councilor Tevos. Our arrival didn't bring The Others here, they were already here. The Batarians were incited by something, they somehow knew how to summon demons and open a rip in the veil."

 _"How_ exactly do you do that?" Tevos asked, her eyes burrowing into the ever calm Inquisitor.

"By causing enough suffering in a short amount of time, it caused enough spiritual energy to be released in a concentrated area that tore a small hole in the Veil, the seperation between The Supernatural realms and the Mundane one, the one we reside in currently," The Inquisitor explained "Not all holes in the Veil are bad, it merely depends on the intent behind the summons."

"What do you mean?"

"Demons aren't inherently bad, the majority of them are neutral. What _makes_ them bad is what they're summoned for. A demon can be summoned for many things: Sex, dialogue, knowledge, or just to see if it's possible. The Batarians, somehow, learned how to summon a demon forth and hold the veil open. They planned to do this over and over again in multiple Wards to overrun you with The Others. Because you called us, they failed in their plan." Sparatus nodded slightly, his mandibles fluttering pleased.

"And you know how to stop them," Tevos crossed her arms with a tilt of the head, mind churning with the information "how did you learn?"

"We never forgot our gods, Madame Councilor," the Inquisitor said it as though obvious "We never forgot nor did we ever stop in our pursuit of arcane knowledge. We, the Blackwatch, are a culmination of millenia of magic users, occultists, and others," the Council didn't know if the Inquisitor was saying "others" as a way of saying "And other peoples" or if he was saying "We have Others with us" but listened further as he spoke "whom united into a common goal: Protect the Mundane world from the Supernatural and the Supernatural from the Mundane."

"The Supernatural from the Mundane?" Tevos wondered aloud.

The Inquisitor smiled "Madame, Terrans are _far_ more headstrong and resilient than you could ever hope to know."

"On another subject, Inquisitor," Valern came to stand next to Tevos now, whom was troubled by this news and soon after went to sit "Magic. What is it, how do you manipulate it?"

"We've told you in the past, Councilor," the Inquisitor frowned. Valern shook his head.

"No, it's been avoided. I want to know how it works." The Inquisitor sighed.

"Councilor, what we've told you is as best as we know it. Magic is the power of everything, the very makeup of the universe, this one and the Supernatural. Some Humans are born with the ability to manipulate this power directly, Mages, that may dedicate themselves to a certain school of magic, such as the Healers in your hospitals or the Battlemages that helped clean the Wards," the Inquisitor continued keeping his stare on the Salarian "Others only have an innate form of magic, whose..expenditure, of magical power is stunted and cannot be directly manipulated."

"Either way, Magic is everywhere, it is everything. On Earth, some are infected by beasts with a magical disease. Werebeasts. Others are Humans twisted, broken, and made subhuman. Vampires. Some are smart enough, and driven enough, to mix magic and science. Alchemists."

"In all things there is a spirit. Some more advanced than others, some more capable than others. The chair you sit on is in posession of one, Councilor Tevos," the Inquisitor's expression never moved as the Asari turned her head to the man whom raked his gaze over the guards in the room, whom had their weapons in hand and ready incase they should need to guard the Councilors.

A fool's errand, but the Inquisitor didn't let that be known.

"Your guards' weaponry and armor, however, is devoid. Manufactured cold. Made with automata, rather than one posessing of a spirit or cared for by one such a bearer. They do nothing with the armor, no personalization, no time taken for it. Stick it in an autoloom and let it handle it, correct?"

The Guards were afraid to admit he was right.

"I thought as much," the Inquisitor looked at Valern again "Describing Magic is no simple matter, Councilor Valern. Magic is everything, everywhere, as present as the air we breath or the cold in the dead of space. You're not a mage, Councilor, I would sense it if so," The Inquisitor frowned, seeming to focus between Valern's large eyes "No, you're no mage, but if you had the ability you'd be an Archmage, a high ranking Mage in the various Magic Colleges. You're smart, I can tell, you think in ways few do." The Inquisitor focused on his sight once again, Valern drinking in the information like a sponge "You'd make one hell of an Archmage, Councilor Valern."

"I have questions for you, Inquisitor," Sparatus spoke up for the first time since the Inquistor's arrival.

"By all means Councilor, I am here for a reason," The Inquisitor respectfully inclined his head.

"Shanxi. Gas shells. Why?" Straight to the point, the Inquisitor had to respect that.

"The Others, for whatever reason, simply will not touch bodies desecrated by the gas. They won't touch them, they won't look in their direction. It's an easy, awful way of keeping The Others from spreading. General Abbot and the other Generals had _no choice_ but to use the Shells. If they hadn't, we'd of had to commence an extermination of Shanxi. They'd of spread too far, too wildly, fed too much to be easily contained."

"Extermination?"

"Utter proliferation of shells from orbit into the planet's crust, causing awful earthquakes and preventing future colonization and thus, the Others from feasting."

" _You...you do what?"_ The councilor recoiled in horror "You destroy worlds?"

"We've only done it once, Councilor, we take no pride nor joy in the act," The Inquisitor frowned "But it's best a planet be destroyed than The Others spread."

"That you people even have such a protocol shows your inability at your own duty," Sparatus spoke before realizing what he said and for the first time, the Inquisitor's relatively neutral face descended into a steep scowling glare, the temperature of the room dropping considerabley, as the Councilors' collective breath began to mist. The guards stepped foward in preparation.

"Do not dare to think you know my people, Turian. Do not dare to think you know of our duty, of what we see daily, of what we deal with daily, of what we swear ourselves to do daily. Do not dare, Turian, you wouldn't know the worst of an infestation of the Others if it came and bit you square in the eyeplates. What you experienced, Councilor, was the equivalent of the start of a roach colony. What you experienced was _nothing_ compared to what I've seen, what I've cleansed, what I've carved my title from. Do not dare."

The councilors almost started to shiver until the glare lifted back to neutrality, the temperature lifting again as Sparatus coughed to clear his throat "I'm sorry Inquisitor, this is..merely a tense time for us. We've yet to encounter something like this except for the Rachni or the Krogan."

"I have more important things on my mind than your arrogance, Councilor," the Inquisitor fixed his robe, armor hidden beneath it along with the short shotgun he always carried "Or your ignorance. To end this engagement, I ask that me and my people stay on this station to sanctify the Wards from further incursion."

"How would you do that?"

"Magic, Councilor." Valern's face scrunched up at the mere mention of the word.

"Agreed," Tevos assented and stood from her chair "Thank you Inquisitor."

"It's my duty, Councilor, alien or not."

* * *

(Another talking chapter this, I may start uploading some chapters to Insight so that we get more of the world than just what we see here. Hope you enjoyed, Gonna make the Council worth a fuck I hope.)


	40. Meet the Mayor

(Alright everyone, bit quick, but if you want I can do 'flashbacks' showing detail of the citizenship debates. Enjoy!)

(Also, because this directly pertains to the story at large _and_ characters in general, I'm uploading this chapter to this story as well as Insights, the sister story to this one! If you would, hop on over and give that a look see. I'll be trying to update both regularly.)

* * *

Flathead was no liar, Proctis and the other Turians of Eiswald were well fed and had plenty of surplus (some of which they could stand to trade to help the citizens that helped them so in the community gardens and in helping with their own which thrived) food in their larders, a second level dug into their home building which was becoming less and less strictly Turian (the Terrans would equate it to a civilization named 'Sparta', apparently there were parallels) and more Terran, much more comfortable and homey rather than military.

Proctis was happy, the Terrans seemed to accept them well enough but they always seemed to have an attitude about them. Expectant maybe? Of what? Proctis was unsure.

But he decided that he'd talk to the mayor of Eiswald, whom he'd yet to meet, and hopefully earn from the mayor what he figured the Terrans wanted. Citizenship.

Proctis, senior of the Turian defectees and now the de-facto leader, represented his people. They'd chosen him. A make-shift president of a tiny, imaginary Turian republic. Proctis wore more Terran clothing now, a thin button up shirt with a pair of denims. His feet were uncovered, the ground was not difficult and his feet weren't hurt by the pavement. Of this, he was thankful.

He could still remember the pockmarked ground during the invasion.

He repressed a shudder as he looked into the mayor's building now, seeing a gynoid there behind the desk. Her face was humanoid, rather than Flathead's engine looking head and face or other Mechanoids that sometimes had non-human faces or strictly mechanical.

She had synthetic flesh, hazel colored irises in her oculi, and a head of synthetic hair tied into a pony-tail. She wore a black business suit, a pencil skirt, and stockings. Proctis needn't cough for her attention, as the door dinged when he entered. She seemed to be typing on a computer, until Proctis looked closer and realized it was no computer but a manual typewriter of blue steel body, paper risen slightly as she types away expertly.

Terrans.

"Appointment?" she asked, not looking up.

"I want to see the mayor," Proctis realized he'd yet to have actually _met_ the Mayor and frowned inwardly. If the Mayor wanted to bulldoze their building, would he listen?

The gynoid looked up and her eyebrows rose in surprise "Ah, Proctis! Sorry, didn't realize it was you. The mayor's free, right now, if you want to see him."

Proctis nodded "I'd appreciate that miss..?"

"Martha."

"Miss Martha. I'd like to see the mayor."

"Follow me," Martha stood up with a smile and motioned for Proctis to follow her. The Turian noted that the building was alot of wood, the floor which was layers of wood overlapping eachother as though an arrow pointing at the Mayor's office. Along the wall were pictures, wether they be art or exemplary citizens and times in Eiswald's history or pictures of earth which he was particularly captivated by. Pictures of places like New York City, a veritable metropolis of cities connected by bridges, trams, trains and cable cars. A city that never slept, Proctis figured.

The click click of Martha's high heels wasn't the only sound Proctis could hear. The gentle hiss and hum of pneumatics in the walls funneling messages to and fro could be heard. The walls were cream colored plaster, bordered by brown wood and the lower half of the wall decorated by wooden panels with carved decorations. The slight imperfections showed they were all handmade.

Proctis' view turned to Martha, who walked perfectly human, which still amazed him. Her dress was tight, a form that made his mind think things he never would of a machine, that he mentally smacked himself for. But he did see something, she had a small pistol tucked away in the side of her suit.

Smart.

"The Mayor will see you," Martha said with a smile as she came on a door, knocked, and earned an affirmative.

"Thanks, Martha," Proctis nodded his head.

"Any time."

Proctis steeled himself and grabbed the brass handle of the door and pushed it in.

"Flathead?" Proctis asked shocked as the very Mechanoid that helped him and his people out sat in a dark blue shirt and black pants, a double harness of black leather was strapped around his chest holding two revolvers a piece.

Everyone was armed, apparently.

"Good Mornin' Proctis," Flathead smiled and stood from his chair. A third revolver.

Spirits alive.

"You're the mayor?"

"That's right."

Proctis closed the door behind him and frowned "You wanted to bulldoze my people's barracks?"

"If you weren't going to contribute, you'd have to find another town to live in, yes." Flathead said matter-of-factly "But now you're contributing, people like you, and you're doing well for yourselves. Though I have a feeling you're here for more than brown-nosing. Sit," Flathead motioned at the leather chair before him and sat back in his own.

Proctis took the seat, looking around at the room he was in. Not too large, not too small, the floor was white tile while the walls were wood, as he figured they would be, decorated with statuettes and carved wood figurines or hand carved wood panels. Pictures of Flathead and the citizenry hung on the walls, where pictures of Flathead armed with a rifle and standing over the body of a recently deceased animal didn't dominate.

"You a hunter, sir?" Proctis asked, earning a nod.

"Yes I am. I don't get tired nor as bored as Humans do, so I can hunt effectively should someone need the meat and the animal's in season."

"You're a good man, sir," Proctis said nodding "A good leader."

"Thanks for that, so are you if the status of your people's any indication."

Proctis nodded, looking Flathead in his eyes, finding that instead of mechanical workings he could sense emotion as he would any organic. He found that Flathead was curious. And waiting.

"There's something I want to request of you, for my people."

"Tell me."

"We've been here a while now, we defected from the Hierarchy and you've treated us better than we figured you ever would, you and your people." Flathead nodded, leaning onto his desk, fingers interlaced with eachother as Proctis spoke. "But we know we're still foreigners in a foreign land, no matter how much we may be here or how much we may help. We're foreigners."

Proctis took a deep breath, Flathead ever patient, and released it "We don't want to be foreigners. We want to be citizens. Of the Alliance, of the NAA, of Eiswald."

Flathead merely stared.

For a pregnant second, Proctis worried he may well deny them. Tell them where to stick it and how to apply the correct substance for it. Tell them to leave his town.

Proctis' head began to bead with sweat, somehow Flathead's stare was harsher than any of his trainers.

Flathead stood up, walked around his desk, and Proctis stood with him. Flathead stood by the door.

A denial.

Proctis started to protest as Flathead waved him over, but his pride wouldn't let him.

Then Flathead with a boisterous laugh gave the Turian a one armed hug "You're a brave bird, Proctis, I was wondering when you'd damn well ask!"

Proctis' head about crashed when Flathead's crushing hug was delivered, a smack to his back removed the air from his lungs, the new breath tasted that much sweeter when he stared wide-eyed at Flathead's grinning mechanical and synthetic flesh face.

"I've been waiting some time for you people to get up and grab at the request, damn it. You work, so you eat. You've been assimilating into the culture, noticed you've kept your own which is very good, and you may damn as well be a citizen. But, you and your people will have to go through tests. You know this?" Flathead's gaze narrowed as Proctis nodded, jaws held tight so as to stop them from dropping.

"You've been waiting for us to request it?"

"Son, if there's anything you're gonna learn about us Terrans it's that we don't dick around. You want something, you work for it. It won't be handed out. You want to be a citizen? You work. You contribute. You make a farm, you trade supplies if you don't need them." Flathead rose a brow which made it tink with the metal contact "So what does that sound like?"

The pieces clicked in Proctis' head.

"You were teaching us. Testing us."

"He shoots he scores, attaboy."

Proctis' heart thumps in his chest a laugh of disbelief melting into one of happiness "Does this mean we're citizens?"

"Honorary for now, but I think much of the NAA embassy can see that you may as well be. Don't worry, I'll get your people citizenship."

"You're a good man, Flathead, thank you," Proctis shook the Android's hand proudly, squeezing back as Flathead gives the Turians' hand a squeeze.

"Just keep doing what you're doing, you work and you'll be one of us!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Now get the hell outta here, I have people to talk to in an hour."

* * *

The next few weeks were tough, to say the least, as between the polling in town from the citizenship as to wether or not the Turians _should_ be given citizenship (the majority of which said yes, some said no, others simply didn't care), the eventual acceptance by the Mayor Flathead that Eiswald's population decided in the affirmative, the eventual joining of other towns owned by the NAA in the affirmative (atleast a couple decided no), which got the attention of not just the _American_ embassies, but also from other Alliances on other planets.

Througout Alliance space, the debate was roaring and tough.

"They invaded Alliance space! Why should they be?"

"They didn't want to fight!"

"This could help Alliance PR for the Aliens, maybe."

Many debates were had, not every Alliance agreed (was expected) though occasionally a bloc would decide they were fine with it. After some internal debate, some blocs in such Alliances allowed it.

To leave those blocs would be a criminal offense.

Something was better than nothing.

The NAA decided, almost unanimously, that Aliens would be allowed citizenship (after strenuous tests and background checks, not all states in the USA would allow it, but most did) and the news of this when it met the Citadel was a new flame of debate.

And for many, a new way in life.

Many an alien came to Aliance space in hopes of citizenship. The time for them stressful, many got denied after their background checks showed they were criminals, and those that got in were stripped of previous citizenships and made a Citizen of the Alliance.

Proctis and his people got large parcels delivered to them, after the news reached them, and once opened letters were passed out to those they were meant for.

Within, were cards of citizenship.

Celebrations were held across Alliance space, for those who supported Alien citizenship, and for those Aliens that became citizens of the Alliance the celebrations were joined with those of the Terrans.

Though, now, they were Terrans too.


	41. Come to Earth

Kartuk Gavan slapped the datapad down on the desk before him, a form of mist supporting a head almost canid in shape, eyeless ducts burning with fires that seemed to be deep within a cavern, the figure didn't look to the pad. Instead, the figures' 'eyes' were locked on Kartuk.

The Batarian scowled "You never told me about this organization, The Blackwatch. You never told me that they could reverse our practices."

"You never asked," the voice answered from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, coming from afar and so nearby in a matter of fact tone that made Kartuk spit at the floor, a pitiful slave long broken cleaning it almost instantly and scurrying away after a harsh glare from his master.

Kartuk's gaze fixed on the demon once more "If this Blackwatch is powerful enough to turn back demonic advances," Kartuk arrogantly leaned into the demon's space "What are we to do if they get the bravery to attack us here?"

"As long as you feed me, you will succeed," the demon answered, the canid head turning to the Batarian slightly "If you fail, you will fail."

"I summoned you to _stop_ any failures, demon, Khar'Shan will not fall if the Blackwatch attacks."

A chuckle, echoing off the walls like a winding cave "It'll be more than them."

The fact that the Demon 'will be' rather than 'would be' worried Kartuk "What do you know, demon?"

"The Alliance will attack, Kartuk. That is inscribed on the long tapestries of fate," the demon answered as it leaned in close, casting a pale red/orange light to go awash over the Batarian's face, the two eyeless holes focusing on the four of Kartuk's at the same time "What isn't is the outcome. Feed me, Kartuk, and you will succeed. Fail in this, and you will fail miserabley. The Batarian Hegemony will fail. You will be excuted. Khar'shan will be awash with the silverflame of the Blackwatch and what your people've built over so many millenia will be all for naught."

"Feed me, Kartuk, and you will succeed."

"You will be fed more than you could ever hope for, demon," Kartuk promised as he saw prophecy of the Batarian empire returning.

"Make sure of it, mortal, and you will do more than succeed. You will be eternal."

* * *

The Inquisitor was a towering presence amongst the populace of the Citadel, whom regarded the man with fear and respect as with a mace in hand aglow with magical power, the firey runes letting off an aura of heat miasma, the Others were constantly routed no match for the Inquisitor who frequently travelled alone into the dark depths of the Citadel.

The Inquisitor, an impressive specimen of a man, was towering in more than just his height. The magic he radiated, the mace he carried, and the purpose he represented caused many to clear the way as he walked with his red robes decorated with silver and gold lacing, armor hidden beneath, with the dancing aura of runes shimmering with power dug into the fabric.

Where his mace swung, so screamed the demons that hid. Should a man have an ear, let him hear the words of the Inquisitor as he rallied the populace after such a terrifying time.

The time had come, however, when finally the Others were effectively crushed beneath the boot of the Inquisitor and his men. When the time had come, so too had come the time to close portals.

Few Citadel dwellers ever saw the act, but those that did were surprised to see them closed with prayer and offerings. Some bore crucifixes, others pentacles, and some still other items of worship such as silver decorated horns and the sacrifice of blood, incense burning as offerings were made.

The holes, rippling wounds in space itself, stitched themselves together like a tapestry and finally, with the temperature rising to normal levels again, the veil was healed.

The wounds were closed.

The Others were gone.

Most of them, anyway.

The Inquisitor and his men would stay to ensure nothing more happened. With sanctifying rites of water, smoke, and magical flame, wards were created. Should anything be in there, they would soon disappear with the magic used or be stuck until the wards disappeared.

* * *

For those aliens that had never _seen_ Earth let alone _been to_ the planet, the blue ball was a shock. In the night, lights glowed in the dark, airships in the sky acted as transportation and cargo or skyliners, cars were an equal amount of fancy and functional, art deco was _everywhere_.

In the metropoli of Earth, the skyscrapers stretched towards the sky as small airships acted as taxis between the skyscraper lanes, many of which connected with sky bridges, while ground traffic below did similar.

The aliens, a mix of Asari, Turian, Salarian, more than a few Krogan and Quarians, all saw that the airships never seemed to hold anyhing that could help them float. Indeed, some of which were effectively floating platforms with a top and a number of bench seats inside with many passengers.

"How does that float?" asked a Quarian, racial prejudice forgotten as lights danced across their transport's hull.

"Not a clue, these Terrans don't use eezo," replied a Krogan. After a second look, the Krogan was identified as female. That, that was rare.

"Magic maybe," supplied a Turian "They apparently have enough of it."

Oh how correct the Turian was, though he didn't know that.

Their transport landed, coming to a gentle landing on a large platform as the doors hissed open.

When they came out to this brave new world, inhabited by peoples so strange, they were surprised to see that the Terrans, Human and Mechanoid, had joined for their arrival and the uproar of cheer they received took most aback, but made their hearts warm at the welcoming.

After all, they were greeting new citizens of Earth.

* * *

(Short one, I apologize, but writer's block eats the cheesiest flavor of donkey dick this side of the milky way galaxy. I've been considering posting my _original_ writings on Wattpad, so if you'd be interested in that let me know and I'll message when/if I do so. I've also been considering deleting Insights because I don't update it often and it just feels tacked on. Visions _was_ always supposed tod o the duty of both, so I may well do that in between getting to the main story and such, so no one has to follow two stories for what should be one. Was a good idea in concept, I suppose.)


	42. Codex: Warm and Cold crafting

Cold crafting&Warm crafting.

The Terran terms 'cold' or 'warm' crafting are two things that may stump many, for the Terrans it makes perfect sense.

Cold crafting means that something is made automatically (many things Terrans use _are_ made automatically, mind you, as in factory made, the Terrans _love_ their factories) and then not given personalization, no customization, no name attached to it (as in a _personal_ name) and no _real_ love and intent poured into it. This lack of attention, lack of personalization, creates a 'cold' item, lacking a soul. Automata, plain and simple. Things created by this 'cold' machine will thusly be 'cold' and soulless unless imbued one by a human or mechanoid that takes his/her time in adding their own touches, customizes it for themselves, or even names it.

'Warm' crafting can occur _after_ 'cold' crafting, most of the time it indeed does, and while not all spirits are made equal, they _do_ give off a certain amount of heat (even metal) which seems to connect to the heart of the one wielding it or operating it.

For Terrans, this is the very thing that drives them to love warm crafting so much.

The spirit of an item depends on the item. For example a wrench or a bench is not as advanced a spirit-bearer as a locomotive of any kind. Benches and wrenches can give off warmth to the one sitting on or wielding it, but it is more residual.

A locomotive given customization, touches and edits and a name are imbued with far more of a soul and in some cases can have personality (A Terran saying his/her car didn't like a certain thing isn't just a nutty Terran's quirk. They're being serious.), military crews of tanks have sworn up and down and all around that their tank assists as best it can with what it can.

Pushing the engine just a _little_ bit more, stopping the tank _just_ when the precipice is too close, or pushing on even with fuel being vapors.

"If I could put in a machine to let my tank talk to me, by the Gods I'd do it!" proclaimed one, who immediately got to thinking.

Terrans seem to have developed a sort of sense for warm or cold manufactured items, can tell almost instantly what is and isn't warm or cold. Terrans, having become acustom to being surrounded by 'warm' crafted items dislike being surrounded by 'cold' items. Ask one, they'll likely reply "Everything's cold. Disconnected, somehow."

Terrans have developed a deeply rooted culture almost worldwide of working with one's hands, which is why it's so painfully common to see Terrans working with their hands in some capacity, rather than letting a system be automated (not to say automation isn't often used) as they rather be 'connected' to what they're doing.

On the subject of 'mechanical spirit', because of the fact most vehicles are _essentially_ a being in and of itself, few are _disposed_ of, rather they have done to them what Mechanoids have done when they replace a piece. They'll let the spirit become accustomed to the new part and grow into it. Eventually (rather quickly, actually) the old parts are completely replaced and the vehicle retains the spirit it was imbued with while being upto date or repaired.

When, however, something advanced enough to retain a spirit is beyond repair or replacement, they'll be given a ceremonial funeral which either actually does or merely to assuage the Terrans' minds of connection and sentimentality let the spirit pass on and join its fellows (normally a piece of the vehicle will be buried with or near a crewmember that served in it, wether they be recently deceased or long since) while the material is melted down to create a new machine.

* * *

(Question: You think I'm strange for this kind of thing, don't you? I do too.)


	43. Insight: The Brig

(I'm uploading this, and others, here as an experiment. I know, it's lazy as hell and I'm headdesking as I write this (I'm talented) because of it, but basically what I'm doing this for is as follows: I'm trying to see if I'm wanting to delete Insights and use a recommendation to simply mark chapters which would fit Insights as such, and upload them here, so everything's all in one place.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!)

* * *

To call his destination a speakeasy would be a lie. Alcohol was no more illegal than getting topped off at the downtown Brothel. No, instead it was a speakeasy in similar fashion that few spoke of it or did in hushed tones. The Brig was not a place most anyone wanted to be associated with publically.

A fine establishment of plentiful glasses, loose skirts and enough quiet that a man could actually think was also home to a number of mobsters, wanna-be's, and bunko artists that wanted nothing more than for you to buy their snake oil so they could take your money hard earned or not.

A speakeasy it was not, but hidden it most certainly was. Through the labyrinth of alleyways that stunk of piss and broken dreams when he first arrived, with the rain pouring over his trench coated form running off the brim of his Fedora, the man known to most only as 'Doc' walked the same road he'd done a hundred times now. The alley way still stunk, but he didn't notice. Not anymore. Nor did he really pay much mind to the constant pounding of rain on his hat, nor the little river it formed as it escaped from a pressure-formed funnel down the front and between his vision.

Meridia was a fine place, but it was the underbelly that to many really gave it the reputation of 'Jewel Of the Ocean' being borne as a coastal town on a planet named Amazonia now brought up as a trade hub. A center of commerce, culture, and crime.

Doc turned, left, left, right, left, and finally straight and downward. The rain made a river, funneled out from the hidden door by two gutters that led into the sewers, the under-dark.

 _Clack-Clack knock_ he knocked on the 'stone' of the door, one of the fake stones being moved back and two pale-yellow mechanical eyes stared out questioningly.

"Password?" Asked a deep, tinny voice synthesized by audiotory mechanics.

"The deep takes the fools. The Shadow takes all." A gravelled, level voice answered.

"Welcome, Doc." The stone slid back in, latches could be heard unhinging.

 _'Always with the hinges.'_ Doc rolled his eyes and looked behind him and up at the moon, white with a bare tint of baby blue, cast its cold light down into the alleyway almost showing the way to anyone brave enough to wander the labyrinthine cobblestone alleyways.

Doc checked his side, feeling the familiar weight of his revolver shift in it's holster.

 _Click, clack, clack clickclack. Shhhhick._

The door swung open, the Mechanoid doorman motioning with his head for Doc to move in.

Tilting his wet hat at the mechanoid Doc swiftly slid his hand into his pocket, chuckling at the doorman's body tensing, and pulled out two silver coins. Depositing the currency into the Doorman's hand, who took it thankfully, Doc moved past him and into the dark corridor lit only by neon.

He could already smell the smoke and the whiskey, a familiar intoxicating smell that took most of his worries away already despite him not actually being _in_ the Bar yet.

Passing a final door, a heavy affair of wrought iron and incredibly dense black wood, Doc was finally there.

The Brig.

Characters of many stripe drank here, from aforementioned Mobsters and Bunko artists, to whores and a couple honest lot just looking to have a drink or smoke or both.

Cigar smoke hung heavy in the air, casting a foggy tint over the neon lights and advertisements hovering over the bar patrons like a protective cloak of tobacco. The whole building had dark brown wooden walls, lined on the left and curving around toward the door with cherry red leather dining booths. Most of them stocked full of people. Dim lights, just enough to light up the tables beneath them just enough, bolted to the walls giving a much fancier look than the Brig deserved.

On the other side was the bar. A long, white stone topped table bordered with polished, stainless steel meant to be sturdy, decked with large, comfy stools that seem to be getting worn down after so much use.

Behind the bar was it's owner and manager, another Mechanoid by the name of Willis, who used his many metal arms to serve the bar patrons all at once, pulling large and small glasses of alcohol from around the world from the gallery of debauchery behind him.

Doc wasted little time in taking a seat at the far end of the bar, closest the entrance, and with a whistle got Willis' attention. The Mechanoid swiftly moves over, using a spinning hand and rag to clean a glass and serve it almost fluidly. "What'ch'll be 'avin'?" asked Willis with his normal tone of friendly challenge. Doc smirked under his fedora "Dwarven Whiskey." He doesn't take off his coat, instead leaving it on to dry in the smoke filled air.

"Usual then." Willis nodded his metal head and quickly produced an alcohol of dark hue, pouring it into the glass with expert, mechanical precision and presenting the glass to Doc.

Doc looked at the glass, then the bottle which was mostly empty, and at Willis.

"Fine but it'll cost ya extra. Damn drunk." Willis said jokingly handing over both glass and bottle, Doc already taking a drink of the whiskey that once upon a time made him almost choke half to death.

"Already gave D some money." Doc supplied helpfully, taking another drink.

"It's his tip for lettin' yer arse in here." Willis shot back levelling an accusing, lit eye at Doc as he serves another patron a drink.

"You hurt an old man." Doc said with a mock frown as he filled his glass.

"Hurt'cha fer real soon enough."

Doc snorted a laugh and looked down at his glass, at the dark amber liquid inside which smelled of wheat and snowberries.

"So what's got'cha in a tiz?" Willis leaned onto the Bar with a few of his many arms "Dog piss on yer boots?" He rose a metal brow. Still serving drinks. What a man.

"I'd of kicked his ass."

"Would hurt a dog, how could ya."

"Sue me."

Willis somehow snorted "Think about it. So what's up?"

"Looking for someone." Doc looks up, exchanging his glass to his other hand, and uses his now free hand to produce a strange idol from his pocket. The thing feels wrong in his hand, a thing carved from bone with painstaking, sickeningly loving precision of some otherworldly thing that just oozed malice.

Willis looked at the thing, then Doc, then the item again, before sighing. "Back room. You owe me extra."

"Think about it." Doc pockets the thing, drinks down his whiskey, and takes the bottle with him, checking his revolver again.

With a deep breath he pushes the door in and walks past.

 _Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing._


	44. Insight: Ozzy's Ascent

Tearing his attention away from the glaring abyss, Ozzy turned back to the felled Turian vessel and cleared more debris from the once proud veteran. Vessels, enemy and allied, were given the same respect as any vehicle was by Alliance Scrappers. A near religious respect given to them before they were had at by plasma cutters, diamond saws and construction claws. So would be this vessel's destiny, after it was gutted out.

With obstacles cleared, he used the neurohelmet attached to the inside of his helmet (using what remained of his brain) to signal the boat above, which signaled other ships, to pick up and haul the Turian craft with them to the port.

Ozzy should know; after his revival he worked in one of the scrap yards for a few years. Even met other Hellenic Pagans, worshippers of the god Hephaestus.

Was a good job, he had to admit, but the seas called him again, as did the air on the water.

Looking up, he saw the silhouettes of another ship coming into view. The ship he jumped from turned her bow to point toward port. Joined by the other ship, Ozzy saw heavy cables dropped into the water which quickly began to descend.

Attached to the heavy metal cables were hooks and clamps, to go under and around the ship to bring it to the surface.

He watched them drop, walking forward and grabbing one of the huge cables and hefting it over his shoulder. Walking under the ship, then using his natural agility and strength to pull himself up, he clamped the hook onto the roof of the ship. Or was it the belly? He couldn't tell, it took a bad strike.

Jumping down and retrieving another cable, he went the opposite direction of the first and, repeating his actions, jumped onto one of the surfaces of the ship. Attaching the cable together, he travelled down the ship's length.

He was about to grab another cable when he noticed something.

There were no fish around him.

Sure, for anyone else this may be expected. Ozzy, however, was normally _flocked_ by fish and other creatures.

Now?

He wasn't.

Holding onto a cable, Ozzy turned once more to the Abyss and found it staring still.

A shudder came over his body, he knew _something_ in there was watching him.

Wanting to get the job done _quick_ , Ozzy attached the other cables.

His job completed, he began the slow ascent.

He could feel the abyss staring, the fish flocked to him again caressing his body with their own like a dog to its owner. It comforted him, the native and foreign species able to cohabitate some (after plenty of trying with various species, anyhow) and recognizing him.

But whatever it was that stared at him from the dark, it frightened him.

Slowly he ascended, pulled up by a cable as the ship groaned and creaked while being lifted from its watery grave.

Ozzy stared into the Abyss.

The Abyss stared back.

Nothing happened. But somehow, that was worse.


	45. Insight: Hlengiwe's Duty

While Zululand in the southern bloc of Africa would always be home for Hlengiwe, his new home on Amazonia was no slouch for hospitality and new opprotunity. Amazonia was named for the Amazon Forest due to its massive, humid rainforests. While the rainforests were the biggest attraction, the savannah was no slouch either.

Hlengiwe worked as a GAPA operative back on Earth, an Anti-Poaching executioner essentially. Poachers caught were poachers executed. Animals thrived on earth once again, but the GAPA had expanded long since the expansion of the Terrans into space.

Hlengiwe earned his name, literally meaning 'Rescued', because a Zulu Shaman with his beast-companion saved the now GAPA operative from a pack of wild dogs that attacked his family and seperated the babe from them. The family were, thankfully, safe with only a few cuts and scrapes as one of them was armed, and Hlengiwe yet unnamed had been given his afterword.

Now, on Amazonia in one of the savannahs that so reminded him of home, Hlengiwe wore a suit of armor that for many would appear strange if they didn't know its purpose. The armor consisted of multiple parts of a slain beast, the thick horn carapace treated and crafted so as to not dry or rot after its owner's death, slats of the dark brown material layered over eachother in overlapping sections of curved armor on the shoulders.

Over the chest and belly, a similar situation but with ribs cut into the carapace so as to increase mobility and agility, the same material layered over the thighs and legs. On the back, the armor was a broad piece of the horn material while the ribs continued on the mid to lower back, thick leather straps protecting the back of Hlengiwe's thighs and legs.

Atop his head was hat of sand-colored leather extending like a concave bowl to block the sun from his eyes and head, which was bald of hair. He wore a loose shemagh of sandy color, a respirator and a pair of telescoping goggles covered his face and kept his skin cool in the heat of the sun.

The carapace had a strange almost leathery feel to it, the holes cut into the almost half an inch thick material had leather and iron buckles and straps pulled through, holding the armor pieces tightly together. The armor bore the scars of battle, some of it the slashes and cuts of the wild and others the bullet impacts of poachers.

Held in his left hand, with the butt on the ground, was a .308 Winchester rifle he was gfited from the American GAPA Operatives in the nearby town. The GAPA was now a global movement, GAPA operatives tended to get some good presents from the company. Hlengiwe's rifle included.

Aside from his rifle, which the ammo for he had inside the pack hanging from his lower back, he also had a knife hidden in his thigh's armor. On his back as a light pack of essentials. A blanket, some water, some dried food and canned food, a map, his PDA, a light battery and solar panel array, and his binoculars.

Atop a rock, he surveyed the Savannah. Under the armor, he wore an undersuit coursing with cold water to keep him from overheating, which in the Savannah was beyond useful. In the wild walked animals native and non, elephants roamed amongst what were called the "Ammocanthus" or "Sand Spine", the Sand Spines large beasts that similar to elephants had long trunks extending from their tusked faces while water and fat stores in their backs, covered in thick growths of sandy crust that housed a symbiotic bird that in equal parts hunted the parasites and insects that would crawl all over the Ammocanthus and kept their hosts clean in return for their homes. Elephant and Ammocanthus coexisted rather peacefully, the two species quite similar as they seemed to protect eachother.

The calls of the beasts in the distance, amongst the trees and sparse shrubbery of the savannah, made Hlengiwe smile under his coverings. The elephants' loud trumpeting intermingled with the elephant like bellowing of the Ammocanthus, which stood on four legs like the elephants with a long tail, tufts of porcupine-like quills extending outward and ending with fluff of red feathers. Currently, they were down. A signal for 'calm'.

Yeah, Amazonia was a fine planet to settle. Hlengiwe felt content with his job, his career, and watched the animals mill about together as they ate the shrubbery.

From the corner of his eye, however, he saw the movement of predators in the savannah.

His rifle retrived, he readied himself.


	46. Insight: Elder's Journey

Any Summoner knows that to maintain strength, one must be willing to sell part of their sanity. To go through the veil, to walk the lands between realms and dive the temporal caverns buried in the lawless avenues between realms and realities where up is down and down is left. To refuse such a journey is to remain a summoner of lesser strength than their fellows, to refuse is to lessen one's usefulness to the Blackwatch.

However, this one, this elder, this ancient one, walked the avenues with no fear in his heart. No worry that some terror would find him, as they inveitabley did many a time, as he walked through the shadows and valleys of death's realm. He feared none, for he was the feared one.

In a land, if one could call it such, that had no respect for the laws of physics or Mortal mind, the Elder's will was made reality. The path formed with every step of his leather bound feet. A robe, that's what he wore. Typical for a mage, maybe, especially for a Summoner, but as this Elder had plenty of places to hide his essentials, it was his attire for this journey.

The elder's face was like it just slid off his skull long ago. Liver spotted skin splotched and marred by scarring or carved runes was loose, eyes a bleary grey like a weakened storm front sat in their sockets. Wether or not he still used them, who could be sure.

The environment was nothing and everything at the same time, colors impossible for the mortal eye to see let alone bare surrounded him yet weren't there. This, this space between realms, a place where few shall walk.

Execpt for the Elder.

His heart, if it still reside in his chest or replaced by some other font of power, pulled him in one of the directionless ways to his destination.

Finally, through the maddening expanse of nothing and everything, he found it. With a wave of his hand, his will was made true and the nothingless everything faded away to a dank cave of sick and muggy water that clung to the walls.

Unlike any natural cave, it was created of wrong dimensions. Unnatural in its 'creation', partly wanting to funnel him in and keep him out. He walked through the wet cavern, ignoring the feeling given to him to leave, as he tracked down his objective.

Through the darkness and dankness and wrongness of the cave he walked, fearless as he would dissipate any threat should he desire it.

Through corridors of directionless make, he walked a pace of a man in control.

When finally he found his destination, the sight almost saddened him.

A creature, roughly canid in its silhouette, lay in the center of a giant spherical roofed room. No light made it to this room, except that created by the Elder himself. In reaction to the light summoned on the poor creature, it attempted to pull away as if afraid of being struck but fatigue and the great spectral chains that materalized upon its movement.

Held to the floor, the creature whined its sorrow as a weak piddle of bile leaked from its maw. Its fur, matted and sticking to the beast's body, was patchy as if by mange. The beast's head was bare of fur and eyes, a solid half cone shape aiming from its nose to its rear and ending at the mid point of its skull, moved up slightly to 'see' the Elder approach.

No doubt, the beast was starving. Starving, tired, and sad.

Its teeth were sharp, curving backward.

A predator.

There were no other animals in this hell, save the Elder.

But the beast knew the Elder was no prey.

It awaited its execution.

"You poor wretch," the Elder said with a voice from everywhere and nowhere "you're hungry." It wasn't a question.

As if in response, the creature whined again as a new waterfall of bile leaked from its maw. What little it had to fill it stomach just left.

The Elder knelt down by the beasts head, a skeleton-like hand caressing its head. "You wish to leave," said the Elder receiving another weak whimper.

"Serve me, beast, and you will feed. You will run again, a beast chained only to me. You will have your fill and then some. You will be out of this wretched place." The Elder watched the creature nuzzle into his hand before turning to regard the chains that held it.

"Serve me, beast, and the chains will be no more."

The creature, with the last of its strength, pressed its head to the Elder's chest.

It would serve.

With a command, the chains dissipated, as this place was his to control albeit not of his true creation.

"Come, beast, and feed on my enemies." The creature, with magical assistance from the summoner, whined happily as it was taken from the nothingness.


	47. Codex: GAPA leniency

The GAPA (Global Anti Poaching Act) is a harsh law, but a law with good intentions as are the ones who enforce it. But even the GAPA and the ones who enforce it have a soft spot and can allow for _some_ leniancy. When an animal is really old, or is wounded and has no chance on recovering, a GAPA operative will euthanize the animal (by bullet, never by poison) and if the meat is safe for human consumption, is distributed to areas and families that need it.

The GAPA is also not adverse to hunting, indeed once animal populations began to flourish to safe levels and sometimes in surplus, there were allowed hunting seasons on certain animals in order to make sure their numbers weren't too strenuous.

When an operative, or hunter, working for the GAPA kills an animal, they'll send up a radio beacon transmission that alerts fellow operatives and hunters and following airships, whom will find the animal(s) euthanized and take them in for transport and dressing while they make a run for their drop off points, usually redistribution bases.

GAPA airships are decked out with storage freezers, onboard butchers, and computer bays dedicated to communicating to other operatives, airships, and bases as well to keep in contact with poacher hunters (as in hunters of poachers).

When the GAPA slays an animal, nothing goes to waste. Everything from their skin, bones and anything edible is used.

The GAPA are also leniant if they find a poacher who's not doing the crime for fun or profit, but for food and desperate for it. If a poacher is found like this, the GAPA tend to look the other way or will outright give some food to the person(s) in need. Just don't do it again. Get your tags.

Speaking of tags.

If a person files out a set of hunting tags in season, and they get the amount of (and type of) animals they're hunting, they can either be given the meat and furs or can give a cut of the meat and the full pelt over for a profit.

Hunting _more_ than your tags, or hunting outside of what your tag designates, is considered poaching and will garner either arrest, a fine, or if it's an egregious offense: Execution.

The GAPA goes beyond land or air animals either, the seas are watched by the GAPA as well. With this, the numbers of aquatic animals has increased largely. Whales, for example, are a well protected species and because their numbers have increased, hunting in _small_ numbers is allowed.

It isn't _too_ uncommon to see whales being butchered in some harbors, at certain times of a year or after a certain amount of time.

The GAPA extends beyond Earth, anywhere the Terrans expand, so too does the GAPA so as to assure nothing's sent to extinction. The GAPA is also a large part of the research on alien creatures, such as the Ammocanthus of Amazonia, and other creatures.

The Blackwatch and GAPA also work together to catalogue, study, and track 'mythological' beasts hidden from the public's eye that desire to stay that way, so as to gain better understanding of them.

But there has been one or two sightings of beasts such as Kraken in some planets.

* * *

 _ **(Dun dun duuuuuun)**_


	48. Insight: The Last words of Tanner McCain

(I'm fairly certain I've yet to upload this to a chapter already, so I thought I'd do it now. Yes.)

* * *

United States Blackwatch, Case #452, Boston, Massachusettes.

Case: Confiscated knowldge of demonic entrapment, subject(1): Tanner McCain.

Location of Subject: Unknown (presumed dead.)

Scene: Old Bostonian home, black marks in the wood, nail marks in the desk which has splotches of black oil (-like substance) and a single note, along with many books of occult nature.

Subject (2): Tanner McCain's last note

 _I'm writing this in hopes that maybe someone will find this note somehow, if only to know I existed at all. My name is_ Tanner McCain _and I live in Boston, Massachusettes and have for my entire life. This place is well historied for us Americans, what we know in the books. But there are few that know the 'other' history of this place. Of that buried under the streets, brick and mortar of our homes._

 _My_ God! _I can feel it behind me, it's moving-_

 _No! No! I have to keep a level head. Have to get this written. There's a light, my desk lamp, and I'm safe in the light. I'm safe in the light._ I am _._

 _I loved exploring the old buildings of my city, my home, just the feeling of all that history reaching out to be known again. But there are things we're not meant to know, things that come from the blackness of the oceans or buried in the ground of our home. Things gifted few have unearthed and intensified. Made worse what once was so benign-_

 _And then there are the fools like myself that went looking for those once benign 'others.' There are things we Humans should never have unearthed. We never should have known to exist._

 _It started with, as previously stated, my explorations. I wandered the old alleys and into the creaking wooden beams of abandoned homes, mortar cracking and falling out in dust while the brick tries to hold true to its binding._

 _These places, these storied spaces that held someone's ancestors (maybe even my own! Maybe yours!) hold onto all the energy and goings on that happens within them. Happiness, anger, sadness, apathy, all stored in the many stones of the dwellings._

This _is what I'm so interested in, getting a feel for the stories of the buildings, the ghosts that haunt within-_

 _The things buried underneath._

 _One home in particular caught my eye, my heart tugged in it's direction like a puppeteer with his marionette. Like a loyal puppet, I followed it._

 _The home was dusty as anything, so thick I could cut it with a butter knife. With a hankerchief wrapped over my mouth I continued on, waving dust from my eyes as the wet musty smell of age permiated through the home._

 _It was a smell I was all too happy to say comforted me and excited me all in the same breath._

Let me finish! Let me finish!

 _I followed the puppeteer to a space under the broken stairs, where a large oak and iron hatch big enough for a particularly large man to fall down into sideways barred my path. A padlock, rusted from time, defiant of my efforts tried to keep me from the story I so needed to know._

 _I stomped it with my boot and it came off with a clatter, the wood groaning in protest. The lock removed from my way, I opened the creaking hatch making the hinges cry for a desperate oiling. Resting against the husk of the stairs, I continued on down the way into the cellar._

 _The place was pitch black- no, it was_ inky _black, I couldn't see my hand directly infront of my face! It was like a black hole sucking in all the light and letting none escape._

 _A void._

 _Steeling myself, I felt around the walls for a switch or a lantern- sure enough I found a lantern and felt for some oil._

 _With the lantern lit up, I could see just a few feet around me. The lantern helped, but not by much._

 _The puppeteer tugged his loyal marionette on the way, so I followed where led._

 _Boots treading the dirt floor I tried to track the dirt in the ground for anything out of the ordinary, maybe I'd find something more interesting?_

 _I continued on, my gaze slowly being dragged upward by a growing sense of apprehension as I was getting closer to something. The lantern fluttered as though wind had caught it, but I ignored it just as I had the growing crunching under my boots._

 _After what felt like an eternity of walking in a cellar too large for one home, I found..something. A casket? It was child-sized, made of faded wood and rusted iron as though it'd been there forever._

 _The Puppeteer tugged on my heart again- open it, open it. I could feel a sense of nagging in the back of my head. Unsure of myself, I set the lantern down and gripped onto the unhinged side of the casket lid-_

 _I lifted it._

 _There wasn't anything inside._

 _Somehow, that just terrified me_ even more.

 _I sighed, uncaring for the dust as I looked dissapointedly into the empty casket._

 _The lantern fluttered again- there was no wind but I heard the wumf. The rush._

 _My fear getting the best of me I stood quickly and grabbed the ring of the lantern hoisting it to eye level-_

MY GOD! _Why did I do that?_

 _The thing, a black mass with naught a face nor eyes but the lot dissapearing and reappearing in different places, oozed with pride and malice._

 _A scream ripped it's way from my throat and I ran, dropping the lantern in fear._

 _Crossing the void was hellish. I could hear it coming for me, it grasped at my ankle- a pain I'll soon forget._

Let me finish! They need to know!

 _I screamed, tears stinging my eyes as I got into the choking dust and made a beeline for the door._

 _When I got home, I sat at my desk just as I am now._

 _It followed me home after night fell- it can't stand the light._

 _So I decided to write this. Not like I had the choice, I'd of recorded my last words if it hadn't already taken my tongue._

 _I..I'm ready. God have mercy on my soul and to those who may find this: Do not ope-_

The letter cuts out there, more of the substance staining the last words. Mixed in with the oily substance is traces of blood.


	49. Settle In

To say there was a culture shock would be a understatement. Once accepted as citizens of the Alliance of Terra, the aliens immediately found themselves given packages for basic living and then told in bold face letters "Get a job and be useful" in that famous (in Citadel space) Terran bluntness, ontop of the mages in the streets, alchemists ( _most_ of which outright refused to serve them at all) seen in their shops tinkering with their chemical benches and Mechanoids much more opulent in design than was seen in other colonies, showing just how customizable their forms were.

Ontop of the culture shock of bluntness, which seemed to betray a kindness, was the outright hostility some Terrans showed toward the new citizens of Terra. Those that had been in the military could tell rather quickly, as well: Most of them were armed.

There was immediate tension between the aliens and the Terrans, whom if they didn't sneer them away would have a glare or would just ignore them outright.

 _'They don't accept us,'_ thought an Asari with a frown, brows knit together in a furrow _'They don't like us at all. This is new,'_ the Asari sighed when she ducked her head down slightly, shivering in the cold of the air as Christmas had just passed and her breath was visible in the air in puffs. Her clothes were _not_ meant for cold weather, thin as they were, and knew she had to find some way of getting warm.

 _"Find the Dionysus Hotel, tell them that Vincent sent you, you and your friends will get your rooms,"_ instructed their guide, a kind Android, who pointed to the hotel that was a broad thing of white stone and black trim, golden light seemed to spew from the windows, however the aliens figured that was more due to the neon signage in the packed streets hanging from the buildings around.

The Dionysus Hotel's entrance was flanked by bronze statues of women holding bowls that had flame coming from their centers, lighting their faces and the surrounding areas with the light that burned bright. The Asari sighed. She heard the scripture on the Statue of Liberty's plaque when she was on her way to this city, New York, but these women were _not_ the guardians of the golden door she expected, despite the Lady herself being quite a ways away from Dionysus.

She and the other aliens set their sights on their temporary homes, ignoring the occasional glares and grumbles they'd receive, and soon made it to their destination.

Inside the Dionysus was even more grand than the outside, tall cieling , white tile floors, and cream colored walls decorated with art deco designs, occasionally outright art deco frescoes.

In the center of the Dionysus was a bank of desks, men and women tapping on typewriters, every now and again sending a canister into a tube which hissed and sent the message along its way. Along with the typewriters were holders full of paper messages, or terminals with what appeared to be typewriters converted into keyboards. The screens were rather large, bulky, but from what little the aliens could see if the terminal was angled right still had a clear picture.

 _Terrans._

Greeted by a turqoise and gold colored pinstripe suited man with tan skin, dirty brown hair, and eyes a chocolate brown, who had rings on each ring finger and what appeared to be a pocket watch hanging from a pocket in his left breast, the Aliens found themselves acquainted with a man that bore a strange accent, sometimes difficult to follow at times, a new yorker.

"Welcome to Dionysus Hotel!" greeted the man "Name's Irvin Campbell, I own this place, got it from my parents and their parents before 'em," Irvin seemed proud, if his grin was anything to go by "What can I help you folks out with?"

"Vincent sent us," grunted a Krogan "Said you'd treat us right."

Irvin snapped his fingers "Right! Right, Vince, I got ya. Sure, let's get you all set up with your rooms. Don't worry about cost, that was already payed for," The aliens didn't argue their good fortune.

The processing was a bit of a drag, as they had to sign in manually (which was awkward for some with three fingers and the great many which had never signed anything physically) but Irvin and the semi-friendly staff helped them along.

Given keys, and directed to the elevators and stairs, the aliens found their ways to the rooms they were given. Many had to share rooms, couldn't have it all, but considering the good will extended to them, would use a phrase later they'd learn from the Terrans: Won't look a gift horse in the mouth.

The rooms were warm, crisp even, a welcome change from the cold outside. Between the weather and the water, it was _freezing_ outside and few had dressed for the cold.

The rooms were large, had multiple beds (or large beds that could be used by multiple people) and the resident Krogan was happy to find the beds were built sturdy as they handled him with nary a groan.

"These Terrans build their stuff like tanks," mused the Krogan, who weighed the better part of a full _ton_ , "Anything back in Citadel space breaks if I look at it."

"Probably use them as weapons when they get angry," said a Turian happy to get right the hell out of the cold "Spirits how do they live here?" The Turian massaged her hands and stretched as her energy returned in the warmth.

"Humans can apparently live anywhere if you give them a chance," laughed the Asari from before "Seriously, I read there are Terrans that live close to atmosphere, so there's little oxygen. Some do it for tradition, others just to do it!"

"Mad bunch of people," replied the Krogan with a grin "I like it."

"I don't know about you but I'd like a nap," replied the Turian, who wumfed onto the bed with a sigh "I think I need one just to adjust to the fact I just left Citadel space a citizen of a new government."

"You and me both," replied the Asari with a nod.

"I'm getting something to eat, don't take up too much space," warned the Krogan as he thumped out of the room through the wooden door.

"Just don't tear up the hotel," said the Asari after him with a yawn as she stood "Gonna see if I can get some warm clothes tomorrow."

"Same here," said the Turian, slurring her words already on her way to sleep.

The Asari laughed softly, deciding against the nap and instead deciding to watch some Terran T.V. to settle in awake.

While she watched some of the shows, on the large T.V., she couldn't help but feel like she was being watched.

* * *

(To quote Mushu: _**IIIIIIII LIIIIIIIIIVE!**_ )


	50. Flashback: Beyond the pale

Any surviving soldier of the Hierarchy that remained loyal and even partly sane from their encounter with the..Oh, Spirits alive who knows what _kind_ they are, there were so many!

Where One army would fight olive drab bedecked men and women and machines, an industrial and straight forward look, the next would fight men dressed in grey steel and cloth, the largest of which seemed to outright forgoe firearms for _axes_ , screaming the word " _Valhalla!"_ and " _Odin!"_ to the heavens as they tore apart Turian lines with no fear of death. Those that _did_ die, did so with a bloody grin on their faces as their amulets hung from their neck, their allies roaring like men posessed as cloaks of bearskin hung from their armored shoulders.

Where there weren't giants in the streets and plains swinging axes and in some cases, which have been chalked up to PTSD and trauma induced visions, _turning into animals_ , there were the men haunting the trees with faces tattooed intricately, heads covered by boonie hats and khukri blades stained black with soot of incinerated Turian bodies.

These men, with tongues hanging out from their mouth and canines filed into fangs, tear into the Turian soldiers with an animal-like ferocity and the finesse of a master butcher, the same men appearing again drenched in Turian blood.

If it wasn't _those_ , it was the men in tundra-colored power armor as electricity arced between pylons on their backs, veritible thunderbolts of electricity erupting from these men's weaponry, vaporizing the Turian soldiers without mercy.

 _If it wasn't those_ , it was the men in the white and teal armor or dark green armor (the former seeming to be commanders, or some _other_ being entirely), some with great red crests on their heads running horizontally, that if it wasn't at distance, the Turians were destroyed by a merciless assault of physical prowess, their armor, clothes, and flesh stained with Turian blood and grey matter.

The Turians, while fighting fierce and despite the unbelieveable odds against them, stayed strong against their enemies however many they were. The Hierarchy would prevail.

The Hierarchy, however, wasn't ready for the things that the Terrans were even scared of.

There were multiple times where sheer Terran brutality would meet the Turian's own and would cause a stalemate, but even the Terrans more often than not would, behind armored glass, raise a bottle to the Turians at the end of the day, a near universally understood gesture almost to say "Good fight, let's do it again" but when Night began to fall, the Terrans would gesture to Turian scouts, who bore night vision scouting equipment, almost as if to say "Be careful! Nearby!"

Why, the Turians wouldn't understand. Surely they weren't warning of _other_ Terrans?

The Turians would find they weren't.

They were warning of something so much worse.

Terrans, for their brutality, would atleast make deaths quick, the rest mostly being for psychological warfare than anything, and wouldn't leave a wounded enemy living or suffering long. Prisoners were treated fair, rarely tortured, never anything inhumane.

What the Turians found waiting for them in their unwarded bases?

Was beyond the pale.

* * *

(Unbelieveabley fucking short, but I'm trying to get more chapters out so I don't go a month or more without updating again and I want to get back into writing this story.)


	51. Flashback: Molṑn labé

To the Turian general that commanded the armies dedicated to the attack of the Hellenic League's grand cities, his most shameful moment that caused his later resignation and subsequent suicide, the forests commanded and protected by the League and her peoples were like a void. A black hole. A tartarus never to release the lost.

Every step the soldiers took only further seperated them from the realm of the mundane, where Terran and Turian were on atleast rough footing with eachother. Every single, spirits forsaken step, seperated them from their mother army.

The three legions in those forests, marching the white stone steps of the Hellens' path led them to a grand temple in the ever lush forests. A temple that reached high to the skies. There, in the pillars of the building, sat a statue of a grand man with a proud beard, a lightning bolt held in his firm hands, the stone carved so perfectly so as to look very nearly like the pores, veins, and wrinkles of this Gods' arms were real. The God, Zeus, was staring forward the very way they came from. Watching them their entire march there.

The Temple itself was similarly engraved, painstakingly, a labor of love, with frescoes all over the place depicting a culture unknown entirely to the Turians, with what appeared to be Gods and Goddeses that seemed to be sitting in council with the God in the great throne before them.

The commander within, ordering his men to scour the building, caught the eyes of the God Zeus when he looked back up. The Gods' head was turned down slightly and _the expression!_ Glaring, a scowl of utter disdain.

The commander was shocked back to reality when one of his subordinates shook him after what felt like an eternity.

"Commander?" asked the subordinate, frowning at the commanders' slack jawed stare at the statue that continued to stare at the path before him.

"Gah!" the commander jumped slightly, returning his sight to the subordinate.

"Sir? What's wrong?" The subordinate was obviously worried before attempting to inject humor into the situation "The statue is something, isn't it sir? Strange gods these people worship," The subordinates chuckle was hollow.

"Yes..yes they are. I'm fine, don't worry. Status update." The order was followed instantly.

"They've found nothing, sir. No treasury, no armory, no people. Nothing. Empty." The subordinate frowned down at the omni-tool before looking up at his commander dissapointed. "I'm sorry, sir."

"It's fine, the temple is secured."

"Yes, sir. What do we do?"

"Call them back, if there's nothing here we'll leave a company here to make sure it stays that way." The Commander glanced back up at the statue's face...and found it _glaring_.

"Sir?" The subordinate looked up at the statue as well and suffered a similar reaction as the face was turned down to them with a burning glare.

The commander shook his head and found the statue was, again, normal.

"Let's get out of here. Now." The commander ordered "Get the men out of this temple."

"Yes, Commander," the subordinate didn't bother wasting time.

The men sent deeper into the temple came out quick, some of them a few shades lighter than before.

"Out! Now!" The commander growled, trying to keep his own composure. The soldiers quickly, yet orderly, followed their orders and left the temple followed by their commander who looked back at the statue; Yes, it was staring. _He_ was staring.

"Who are you?" the commander whispered to himself lightly and immediately, wished he had not.

The skies above trembled, roared, like a malestrom so terrible as the land was blackened. The sun was clogged behind the black clouds when a thunderbolt screamed through the blackness lighting the landscape, and the terrified Turians, with a flash.

The commander, holding onto a column for stability, looked back.

The statue was gone.

"Contact!" The commander almost broke his neck as he whipped around and saw what had the army so scared.

 _He was there._

Standing 10 feet tall with a brilliant white toga wrapped around his broad body, hair a brilliant white like the lightning that just blinded them not a second ago.

A flesh and blood incarnation of the God on the throne.

 _Zeus._

"Fire!" Shouts out the Turian commanders near, the one holding the pillar shocked stupid at the sight.

Within an instant, those that followed the order..were vaporized.

 _poof._

Just.. _poof_. There was nothing more than that, and the smell of ozone, that would even mark their once existance.

The toga began to rustle, tightening, moulding, and becoming a brilliant suit of armor of red-gold laced with the briliant motif of eagles and lightning.

The God's glaring eyes an electric blue lacking pupils dug into the broken commander.

"You desecrate the land of my worshippers, alien," The God spoke in perfect Turian, shocking what was left of the Turian armies, unawares of the beings that stalked the forests.

Of the arrows knocked and ready for their targets.

"You dare to spill the blood of my people, _my_ worshippers, _our_ worshippers." The voice thundered from everywhere and nowhere, a thousand voices piercing the commander to his core, who simply sat there paralyzed with fear. "Glory to Olympus! Our people will spill the blood of a thousand of yours for every one of theirs. Join my brother in the blackness."

The next few seconds was a bloodbath for the Turians, arrows loosed from a thousand places were the forewarning as the beating of hooves crashed the scene and spears or kopides decapitated the shocked and dying warriors.

Within an instant, the armies were massacred.

Those few that managed a glance, saw... _things_ , dressed in heavy armor, many with large red crests decorating their helms, that appeared to be the joining of man and horse.

The commander could feel their pain, courtesy of Zeus, and screamed an ungodly scream as he was pulled into the underworld by black, frozen hands from the deep.

The scream faded when the hole closed. Zeus was sat in his temple again, the Centaurs gone, and the bodies..disappeared.

Who could explain what happened next for the Turians.

First was the hound, the great three headed monster that herded the dead cattle into the gates that didn't seem to be there. What was expected was a hot, boiling place. Instead, they got cold. So cold. So very cold. Cold, dark...lost.

All around them, a mournful voice screamed out "I just wanted to make sure she was following me!", a man with an ancient instrument moulded to his body as he cries a name they could not understand in sorrow.

A man pushing a huge boulder up a steep hill, only to have it fall back down and him, a skeleton with a fleshy suit, fell down with it almost assuredly dead. Then getting back up and doing it again.

Ferried across a black river thick with the souls of the dead, a thousand thousand coins made up the monster's coffer as with a dry, disgusting chuckle, he ferried them across for free.

Courtesy of the Lord of the Underworld.

Long was their journey, long was their pain, before they saw him.

Cold, judging eyes from the blackness stared them down. A skeleton sitting upon a black throne of obsidian and volcanic rock, skin hung loosely to his body.

Next to him a woman _beyond_ comprehension in terms of beauty, who regarded the Turians with a similar coldness, though seemed to whisper to the God next to her, who with a lone, tiny tear, nodded his head with a creak of bones and joints, and the Turian souls were cast from the throne room of black pillars and unending dark, the souls of the dead milling about broken long ago.

They were resigned to their fate, ghouls with no past, wretches with no future, foreign additions to the chambers of the God of the Underworld.

Courtesy, of course, of Zeus.

* * *

Later, the General that sent his three legions into that occursed forest could be heard raving "Give me back my legions! Damn you, Aliens, give me back my legions!" Worrying those below him, who agreed, hoping for their allies return.

That's when they got the message, straight from the Hellenic League, after the General himself demanded it.

" μολὼν λαβέ"

Translated, they read it as "molṑn labé."

And later, after further translation: Come and get them.

* * *

(Another chapter I'm not particularly happy with, but I haven't written in such time. I hope to improve.)


	52. Flashback: Strike

"Like shootin' fish in a barrel, boss!" chuckled an American gunner as he turned his quad-barreled turret back around to gun down another Turian gunship. Soon, they'd learn: No fly zone. But for now, the gunner blasted down another one, the .50 caliber HEAP (High Explosive Armor Piercing) bullets tearing into the strange talon shaped craft like a white hot knife through wet tissue paper.

The turret was a large thing, actually a mobile gun platform that sat on four spider-like limbs, squat down to the floor as it was, with legs spread wide for balance. The four barrels enshrouded by the cryogel that, while heavy, was _well_ worth it because it allowed the heated gasses to be dispersed carefully and keep the barrel cool. Some could be used as suppressors, even, though those were more rare.

The turret's face was reinforced glass guarded with olive drab painted metal with rivets symmetrically bolted to the armor, a targeting computer relaying the information back to the gunner directly. The legs, reloading, and other systems were handled by his neurohelmet, a machine that in essence joined man and machine; the mech was his body as much as his flesh and blood one was until he, carefully, took off the helmet.

Obviously, the alien craft were _not_ designed for such heavy shells. Something that made the Terran soldiers giddy; _finally_ , something that _wouldn't_ take so much to kill. Earth, Terra, that homeplace of all Humans and Mechanoids near holy, was quite possibly the strongest defended world against the supernatural incursion like the Omen or related, but that didn't stop the Blackwatch or other, strictly nationalist supernatural defense organizations from going a bit further. Or from anything else from coming in with good intent, but the Aliens didn't need know about that now did they?

Something no alien would ever understand; theirs was not the only one. The only place.

There would _always_ be more, as there was. It was merely a matter of cleaning out the rats from the streets and rooting out their nests. For now? Fish in a barrel.

"Good, make sure of it," replies the commander, a woman, "Once you clear the skies stay set up in cover and make sure they don't try again."

"You got it!" replies the gunner as he lets loose another barrage, sending the last of the craft (on an attack vector) screaming into a building which resisted the strike amazingly well as the alien craft (and what's left of the pilot) almost rebounded off, though it stuck for a second and peeled off with an amusing screech of metal and fell to the empty streets below with a last crash.

The gunner leans back in his leather chair, reclining slightly as he scans the skies. The turret of the mech turning with the gentle whirr of the motor as his keen eyes scan the skies for what's left of the Turian airforce.

When his current perch wouldn't do, the driver maneuvered the mech to the edge of the roof he was currently on and prepared his walker. With a bend of the legs and a "1, 2, 3" the driver ordered the mech to _jump_ 20 feet upward and onward, sticking a landing on the roof above him.

Mechanical acrobatics aside, the gunner was satisfied. He set up again, mech crouched low and guns aimed high.

Let anything come into his zone, he'd wipe it out.

He didn't feel what happened to him.

It happened so fast.

But all of Shanxi could feel it.

 _Orbital strike_.

* * *

The strikes were the relatiatory moves from the Hierarchy against the Terran's defiance. As there were no civilians in the Hierarchy, so for the Turians it was not a matter of civilian and soldier. It was a matter of 'them' and 'us', which made the strikes all the easier to order.

All across Shanxi, centers military and civilian alike were wiped from the face of the map. In the deep bunkers of quikrete, reinforced by steel and magical wards against mundane and supernatural threats, humans and mechanoids alike were held safe even as the earth around them shook and cried from the relentless strikes above.

They screamed, cried, and many held a silent, strong face to try and reassure their loved ones even as they knew their very livelihood was destroyed above.

The soldiers, as well, those that survived, were dumbfounded. Orbital bombardment was _not_ something to do nor take lightly and on Earth, it was outright _banned_. Men, women, Human, Mechanoid, and those they rode with, could do nothing but merely watch helpless.

Whatever a good mood they held, whatever flippancy they had, whatever they once felt, was replaced with rage.

After the bombardments, the Turians felt a cold radiating from Shanxi itself, as though a million hearts went stone.

While the unshakeable captains that ordered the strikes held fast, there were those amongst them that wondered if they hadn't just done something _awful_.

A day later, reports of gas shells came in droves. Gas, cannons firing debris...things from the blackness. Ugly, vicious things, dragging men and women away kicking and screaming while the humans watched on. Fully capable of fighting those that fought from the dark, but felt no drive to do so.

They'd merely watch as the Turians were ripped apart, begging for a mercy that wouldn't come.


	53. Flashback: Immolation

"You've killed us. Unless The Blackwatch comes, we're dead. We know how to _suppress_ what's already here, but only _they_ know how to stop them from coming through. _Mercy_ , they'll arrive on her!" The man nodded, tone reassuring as if trying to tell himself. "They'll come. They have to. Otherwise, we'll lose Shanxi for awhile. We won't be able to take it back, not fast." He glared "Because of _you._ " He sneered "They're coming you know. Vampires. Homo Malus. They're on their way. Every week, they grow. Every week, she gives birth. Every week, they get stronger. Every week _you're_ here, they get stronger. Every week this war rages, they get fed." The man's eyes seemed hollow now, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"The Blackwatch knows what to do. They know. They do. They can do it. They can. Really." The man just seemed broken after. Receeding into himself. No amount of shaking, no amount of questioning would bring him out of his shell. He was executed out of mercy. But the Turians felt no happiness from it. They only felt terror. What, _who_ , had they invaded?

The interrogator turned to another captured Terran soldier, a man with tanned skin, short dirty-blonde hair, and eyes a muddy brown. He wore a chest piece of olive drab ceramic, fastened with leather and iron buckles, and had a cloth extension down the front bordered with white.

This man was dressed differently than the one just killed, perhaps a different job in the military?

The Turian marched to the human, who was bound by cuffs and glaring the entire way, and opened dialogue "What do you know of these things? These..homo malus? Speak, human."

"Fuck yourself, you chicken-headed shit-licker." The human snorted.

"I'm not in the mood, human."

"Nor am I, fuck off already. You've invaded my home, killed my friends, and possibly doomed us. What more do you want? Cup the balls and work the shaft? I'll bite it off if you're so desiring." The human spit on the turian's foot. In retaliation, the Turian kneed him in the stomach which didn't do much of anything, it seemed, because the human glared. Padding underneath the armor. Smart.

But the Human's retaliation was for naught as the Turian behind him kicked out his legs and forced him to his knees holding him down there.

The human glared up at the interrogator, still, and pushed against the Turian holding him with futility receiving a punch in the mouth for his trouble.

"Speak human! What are these things?"

"Vampires you prick!" The Human roared up at the interrogator, blood dripping down his lips "They've been abducting our people since before you came, like fucking roaches, hard to kill! Where one dies a dozen replaces it and _you_ stopped our operations in killing them!"

" _Where_ are they, human?"

"Everywhere you chicken-shit," the human spat out some blood from his mouth with a sick splatter "They _love_ the woods, they dig into the mountains because those places are just the best for them. But they'll take shelter in abandoned buildings too, if they're so allowed the opprotunity. Now _what does that sound like_?"

The interrogator nearly went snow white.

"Have there been reports of these things?" The interrogator looked up at his men around him, earning nods.

"Yes, sir, dragging off patrols in the night. We thought it was the humans and their mechanoids again but-"

"Vampires are _human_ you brain dead emu," the turians turned their gaze to the human "They're twisted humans, mutated. By what we don't know; magic? Demons? We're not sure but they're dangerous and they're plenty. If they can eat us, you can bet your ass they can eat you too. They probably like chicken," chuckled the human darkly.

"How do we stop them?"

"Fuck yourself, that's how."

Another punch, another spit.

"Fuck you! That's how!" The human stood abruptly, the interrogator ordering his men back as the human got in his face "You hurt my people, you destroy homes, you kill innocent civilians who just want to make a life on the frontier, and you expect me to help you? I hope the Queen herself chews on your bones, bird, I hope you never die in that hive so you can suffer as my people have. I hope God has his fallen angel torture your soul for your fucking crimes. And I hope God forgives me, for I know _exactly_ what I do."

The Turians were shocked when the Human erupted in flames, the glare on his face for as long as it could be. He didn't scream, not in the face of his enemy, not when his people suffered worse than he did.

The human, a mage, would rather kill himself than he would divulge life saving information to his enemy.

* * *

 _(It's hard to get information out of a mage that has no intention of speaking.)_

Grey: 'Shoot, the gods are REAL? Does that mean Odin and Vahalla is also REAL?!'

Answer: Yes indeed!

Jim: Currently my favorite story on ff. Cannot wait for more.

Answer: Awwwwww you make me blush. I hope you enjoy!


	54. Flashback: Banshee

War is something no one forgets, glorious or not, and there are things people experience they never will forget, for as long as they live. War is tireless, hungry, and a bloodsoaked grinder of men good and bad, with good intents and bad, wether the war be for liberation, for simple conquest, or just to have it.

Every Turian believes the Spirits to be a real thing. Some can say they can feel them even, the Priests especially. But none would be so literal as the accounts described in later Turian logs from the First Contact War, describing _actual_ , physical spirits of screaming women in the night that always seemed to be the harbinger of death for those that heard them.

Shanxi, beautiful with its many biomes (not all of them natural), was also dangerous for the Turian warriors that patrolled the hard-won lands they took from the Terran soldiers and militia.

Dangerous.

There were things some would never be able to forget again.

Faces were so vivid, he could see the face of the gasping woman he'd shot even still. Her light, freckled skin, copper hair a mess of sweat wrought by fear as she gasped out her last. His taloned feet, covered by his boots as they were, seemed just so slick with blood and bile as though it went right through the boots and soaked his flesh.

He stares down at this woman, rifle held in a limp ready pose, as she fixes him with a glare that once upon a time could've melted synthetic diamonds, but now was so cold, so distant, and so tearful.

Twice. He shot her twice. One shot made it into her midsection, the other to her shoulder.

She grasps her belly with what power she has in her wrecked limbs, the motion seeming typical of someone who'd just been shot in the belly, but that's when he noticed her stomach was stretched slightly outward.

The realization was freezing.

She was pregnant.

There were things even Turian soldiers didn't do and this was one of them.

She seems to notice the look on his face, one of distress and sorrow, as he whipes sweat from his brow and in response, her glare turns melting once more with the raspy sound of air being exhaled from her throat creating a hoarse, raspy squeal that could barely make a dog react but for him was just so loud.

She, and her child, died then.

He needs a shower.

Badly.

Stripped of armor, weapons, and down to nothing, he tries desperately to wash himself clean. He never wanted that, never, never wanted children dead. No Turian does, no good Turian. Soap, human soap, smelling of lavender, he grabs it by accident not realizing he wasn't using Turian issued cleanliness.

The smell clings, bites into his flesh and nostrils and refuses to let go as he leans catatonic against the wall. Outwardly, he's blank. Inside, a shell of terror and sorrow.

"I didn't want it! I didn't!" He begs forgiveness into the black of his empty mind "I'm sorry!" he cries into the void, hoping someone will hear. That the woman would hear, in another life. The smell of lavender, a beautiful smell, is anathema to him.

"Spirits, don't tell me it was hers," he cries, holding the pale bar of soap in his hand. He can't tell if it was. He never would.

A sound catches his attention, the talons of reality jerking him back like a harsh shepard's crook around the neck. Turning back, the Turian immediately flexes his talons.

He freezes.

There she is.

All dressed in white, the woman from before, with a hole where her baby should've been, with blood staining what remained of her body, her hair bleached an ethereal white as her left arm hung from tendon and ghostly string, the rest of the arm skeletal and wrong.

Her eyes are no longer hers, now blood red and constantly crying staining her once beautiful face now a flexible mask of porcelain rage.

"How is this possible?" he asks, eyes wide as she devolves into a crying, howling mess. "Please! Please I'm sorry!" He begs, stepping from the shower, modesty be damned. The woman glares at him like no one had before.

"I'm so sorry," The Turian breaks down feet from her, almost able to grab the hem of her gown.

He does, gently caressing the ethereal silk.

"I'm so very sorry."

He can hear her breathing ragged, on the verge of bawling, as she brings her hands to her face which elongates and stretches to inhumane lengths and tears her flesh, the ripping sounding like paper, and she lets out the scream she couldn't in her near-death.

The sound rips through his very being, his hands grabbing at his earholes as they burst, blue blood erupting from them while his head feels as though it splits.

His fellows find him later, his body nude, disemboweled, ears and eyes erupted.

In the distance, in the woods, in the dark, they can hear the howling screams of many fallen women.

The women slain just the morning before.

* * *

(This is the last flashback for a while!)


	55. Codex: Necromagi

(Don't freak out! I have a chapter coming soon in the similar vein as this. I'm uploading this so you all can have a think and I can ask a question: Keep Necromagi in the story and give them more of a role, or say "nah" and give them a minor roll in the story, more of a background thing.)

(Also I wanted to **_desperately_** apologize for not updating in so long. My girlfriend of a few years moved in I think it's been a month now, so I'm still getting used to and trying to mould my writing around it! This story **_IS NOT DEAD_** and I'm not done writing it. I'm just busy!)

* * *

Necromancy is a class of magic that has gotten quite a sour name, mostly amongst the Aliens, while the Terrans have tentatively embraced the practice (it goes back to ancient times, after all) in the modern age as those mages whom have dedicated themselves to the practice can find themselves fairly popular amongst certain circles (Law enforcement is one of those; spirits reside within their corpse for atleast a week before eventually passing onto the afterlife, returning home, or being tied to their place of death and can be contacted by necromancers for any clues the spirit can give) and in some places; has earned a fairly profitable living.

Necromancy literally means 'Divining the dead' or 'death prophecy', essentially speaking to the dead. While Necromancy has been used as a catch-all word for the many practices under this class; it isn't technically correct. Necro _mancers_ are people whom speak to the spirits of the dead, can manipulate spirits, and can control non-sapient spirits as summons (or call upon the spirits of the sapient in their time of need. Especially family members) while Necro _urgists_ are those whom can actually raise and manipulate the dead's physical forms.

Raising the dead, fleshy or not, is something that squicks out most rather quickly. For most, especially the Aliens, the dead are sacred. Do not touch, do not pass go.

For Humans and Mechanoids, this is similar, however many have warmed up to the idea of Necromancy and some have embraced it whole heartedly.

There are still laws _against_ Necromancy, for example one may _not_ revive a dead person unless they were specifically asked to in life (there are legal documents that will be covered later in place as well) before death. However, some Necromancers find the law is less prickly against animals, to an extent.

Scares children, but who doesn't like a bird made of bone flying with magical assistance around the neighborhood.

In places where Necromancy is more accepted or outright so, people have a different alternative to the normal death benefit. Rather than cremation, burying, or body farming, these people may sign themselves up to be revived after death (normally as a spirit anchored to the mundane realm, or in a (their) skeleton after their death (the meats, if clean, are donated to the body farms or just cremated) and allowed a sort of time limit that they may inhabit the world. For a price, it can be permanent. Otherwise, it's a span of normally six months where it can be renewed before the magics wear off) and allowed to operate further, usually to handle unfinished business or to be with their families (if they even accept them after, which many do) in a different form.

To do this, however, the one doing 'death insurance' must sign a dozen and a half legal forms admitting complete consent to the procedure which must then be considered.

After, though, as long as the Necromancer is payed, the insured will live past death.

Necromancy and Necrourgy is also used in the case of the law, as in murders. Should someone be killed, there are rare cases the person may be brought back (sometimes it's best they not be, no matter how much the Necromancer is begged), though failing that, the spirit can still be spoken to unless something _really_ awful has happened (the spirit has been stolen) and hopefully some information if not an answer to the case can be gotten.

However, the bodies can be destroyed beyond recognition and the soul can be stolen away in a soul jar (a Necrourgic item that captures souls, essentially trapping the very essence of a person in the jar until it's destroyed or released, which can be soon..or never) which can essentially mean the case will never be solved.

Necromancy in terms of combat, as in war, is also rather heavily scrutinized.

Using enemy soldiers against their comrades, to some, is considered too much of a sick thing to do to condone. Others don't care, 'more for us less for them' and all that.

However, using allies' bodies (by, essentially, returning _some_ of their spirit to their bodies) is considered slightly less so, although still strange.

However, many armies (especially those in the outer colonies or belonging to city-states or independent governments) will forgoe the stigma and raise enemy personnel against them.

Doing this, however, is the equivalent of a plutonium bomb in terms of public opinion from others.

Expect no mercy.

Necromancers, in general, are _not_ a dark bunch, despite dressing in black (traditionally symbolic of death, however many will simply wear whatever) nor do most despite folklore abuse spirits. Doing so in any effect is _beyond_ frowned upon in the Necromantic communities and is, ontop of the thoroughly _lethal_ punishments for such a crime (if done maliciously) not just by the communities of Necromancers, or the places Necromancy is legal, or that of the _Blackwatch_ , other punishments have been known to have been mete out to those who purposely abuse spirits.

Most Necromancers go out of their way _not_ to harm the spirits of the dead, and offer their respects to those passed, and usually are merely contacting for conversation, information.

Necrourgists, those who revive the dead, similarly, don't do what they do to create an undead army (the experts, however, _can_ if they had the resources) but instead do it in service to the public or for scientific research. Necrourgists and Necromancers, like all mages, are in essence scientists of the arcane field.

Necrourgists find a morbid fascination with Vampiric ghouls, essentially zombies, and while they know they're _wretched_ , the creatures fascinate many because of their self-sufficient abilities.

A horde of undead that don't rot away.

Not all Necrourgists and Necromancers are good, remember.

Some, _do_ want to raise an army.

Wether this be for malicious or just reasons, is to be found depending on which side you're on.

Necromancer's purpose:

Necromancers, though some would rather not admit it, play a fairly key role in modern life. Necromancers, being able to speak to the dead, may help solve murder cases, settle law disputes with a dead party, and if one (a murdered person) desires it; revival.

Necromancers are a people that simply do not fear death; they study it. It's a science for them.

'What, where, why, which, when, who' and all that are some of the questions they ask. They wonder where does the soul go after death, why do they stay, why do the gods claim them (if they do at all, in some cases), and what power do souls hold? What happens if they're not claimed?

Necromancers can be evil, as so many people see them as, but so too can anyone. 'Necromancy is a tool as any other. Any tool can be used to harm.' is the sort of idea to these rather misunderstood mages.

Necromancers also play a role in some societies (mostly independent colonies) that accept Necromancy far more than others, namely with allowing a Necromancer (usually a state-employed Necromancer) to reanimate their skeletal remains after death or use their bones for creating new, moulded bones, to be used for skeletal thralls. These undead can do menial tasks and free up manpower, or can act as guards if the mage is powerful enough.

There is a darker side to this practice considered rather grey; necromancy in combat. Necromancers in combat are capable of using radiant magick (Magick is everywhere, though in some places is more powerful) to reanimate a corpse (or corpses) to fight for them and most have some intelligence meaning they're not shambling corpses. They're truly undead soldiers, albeit soldiers with no loyalty except to their animator.

While animating these combatants is considered disgusting, it isn't technically illegal. All that matters, in essence, is leave their identification alone. Most Necromancers make thoroughly sure the I.D. is left alone. Atleast there will be something to bury.

Necromancers make an unbelievably fine point of not using the souls of those that do not want to be revived. Doing so against a soul's will is the equivalent to rape, in the mind of the vast majority of the Necromancers. However, a soul that outright wants to be revived, even if it's bound to the Necromancer, is all gravy to them. Maybe an ancient wishes to be revived, to see their family descendent. Maybe an adventurer died before their time and wants to see more of the world (or worlds) abroad.

Maybe they just want to experience flesh again.

Or maybe they can't move on and the Necromancer can help with it.

EIther way, Necromancers fit snugly in the grey area of the moral magickal spectrum. Just a slightly darker shade of grey.


	56. Cobalt, silicone, contact

If there was anything the aliens could appreciate about the Terrans, it's that they're as honest as iron and as blunt as a brick in the mouth. Most of the time. But this went both ways, while most would tell you outright wether they dislike you or like you, the magic culture of them had a dark side (to the aliens..and most terrans). Namely, the side that dealt with the dead.

Necromancy.

Every god or goddess or ancestor called by the Aliens got either a chuckle from those necrourgists (as they called themselves to differentiate themselves from those who _divined_ the dead, not revived them) whom they had encountered or agreement from other, non-magical Terrans.

In a modern age where death is final and the dead are left intombed, whichever way they desired, seeing a skeleton held together with lashes of iron buckle and leather strapping is a shock. Seeing one glow faintly with a sickly green energy within them, animating the bones to walk as the living do, seemingly intelligent, enrobed with dark blue clothe that blocks sight of some of the iron and leather material holding it together, but not all, was downright macabre to the new comers.

One unfortunate Asari, travelling alone, saw one such bonewalker, a pickaxe in boney hand, pulling up dirt and cutting rock like an expert. The bones had signs of ware on them, some of them patchy and seemingly to be replaced as they were marked "replacement needed" in black marker.

The Asari's staring apparently got the bonewalker's attention, because it finally struck the pick down in the earth, turned to her, and made a number of motions with its hands, like sign language. That's when she noticed the aura, the sickly green magic, gave it the illusion of _some_ form of eyes. Because they bored right into her.

"Do you have business here?" a voice from behind startled the Asari as she turned and saw a man dressed in similar blue clothe, a thick denim overall covering a blue collared shirt with brass pins holding it all together.

The Asari, scared slightly stiff, didn't answer.

"If you don't have business here, then gyet!"

"What _IS_ that thing?" the Asari asked motioning wildly at the skeleton who, somehow, managed a hissing snort causing the Asari to cower a bit.

"That _thing_ is Derrick." The man crossed his arms "And he works here. You're one of those new aliens, you've never seen an undead before have you?"

"Of course not!"

"Get used to them," the man snorted, his face covered in dirt and soot "Because my brother there is one of 'em. When I die, so will I be."

"What?"

"You never- my god you people're thick! Didn't you research before you came here?"

"Research what?" The Asari asked incredulously, there were informationals about _undead_?

"Necromancers can insure the dead, see," the man began as Derrick went back to digging with another hissing huff "Can raise them up after cremation to continue their life. Wether intelligent or just a sack of bones is upto the one being revived. Derrick, _my brother_ ," the man stressed making the Asari's crest itch at the strangeness of the situation "Chose to be revived intelligent and to pay off his debt and keep himself from dying a second time, is working the jobs not important enough for machines and too dangerous for either living or mechanoid to do and I wanted to do it with him, he's blood after all." The man's tone softened and a smile came over his face.

"I- you people are..you're sick! The dead should be left alone!" The Asari raved as she quickly tried to distance herself from the man and undead "How could you do that to your dead?"

"Necrourgy is a tool just like his pickaxe!" The man growled back, Derrick seeming to ignore both now "Wether you care to understand that or not I don't rightly care. Get out of here." The man shooed the Asari off, face a mask of irritation "Call my fuckin' brother a thing. You fuckin' people amaze me."

The Asari left, quickly, hoping beyond all hope to put distance between her and the undead she just saw.

Her skin crawled like a thousand maggots, stomach a quivering mess of sick at the implications of necrourgy.

Then her mind, _oh so helpfully_ , reminded her.

There wasn't just a few. Not just a city. Not just a planet.

There were colonies.

And the galactic community, for the most part, just accepted them with open arms.

* * *

The great drill of the android's mining barge, with blades of synthetic diamond, tore through the asteroid with ease. With him, all along the great rock held tight in their mothership's artificial gravity tether, were other ships. Most of them were Quarian.

The Quarians, after being given permission to mine with the humans, were ecstatic even with the assistance of the synthetics they feared. The difference in ship was a surprisingly little amount. While the Quarian ships were rough and even ugly out of necessity, the Terran ships were industrial, blunt and honest as iron on purpose.

The ship the android piloted had two magnetic clamps, on arms extended from the broadsides, holding tight to the metal rich asteroid while the drill growled in the dead space rumbling the android in his seat. Below the drill, an alcove was dug out by a small excavator claw allowing the fallen chunks of ore and material to be pulled out from the divot by a powerful magnetic 'vacuum' that pulled the metallic ore in and stored it in the cargo canisters in the back of the ship.

The thing had a boxy look, as most Terran ships do, with sharp angles and a 'no frills' look to it with the cockpit resembling that of a semi used on Terra and in the colonies for terrestrial transportation.

The ship pulled itself in slowly, digging the drill in as deep as it could while the excavating claw tore at the asteroid with a mechanical ferocity only Terran machines could muster, the vacuum sucking in the ore at a vast rate.

When finally the cargo canisters were full and the ship began to push itself off, the android carefully guided his ship with grace through the void past the quarian ships and VI, toward a Quarian cargo vessel not far off. The co-mingling of Terran vehicles, reminiscent of the DUKW landing craft of WW2, and Quarian vehicles that seemed not to have any kind of fixed look.

Turian, Asari, Salarian, what appeared to be atleast a few of their own design (strange craft, like one of the larger, void fork shaped craft turned on it's side with a cockpit grafted into it) and a few that were unknowable to the android's lacking knowledge on the galactic community.

 _'Gotta give 'em this, atleast,'_ the android thought with a chuckle _'They know how to make the best with what they have.'_ The ship pulled up to the Quarian vessel with a swift 180 turn, the rear facing the craft, as arms extended outward to grasp the cargo canisters and hold the ship steady.

"Cobalt, silicone, osmium, got a full tank for you." The Android said after clicking on his comms with the Quarian ship.

"Keelah Se'lai," prayed the Quarian pilot, what the phrase meant he couldn't know but figured it to mean something in the flavor of 'God be praised' "Thank you for this. You may be synthetic, but you're nothing like the Geth." Far yet so near, the Quarian's comments caused a pang of sorrow in a trillion minds all at once, though he'd never know that "Thank you."

"Just doing my job."

"Contact!" Came Erik Haggard's voice over comms, alerting all ships at once "Signatures coming from the deep!"

"Those are Batarian ships!" the voice belonged to Shala'Raan " _Alot_ of Batarian ships!"

"All Guard Ships form up, all miners return to your motherships or the nearest guard. This may get messy."

The Android said a silent prayer to God that they may pull through; the Batarians weren't here by accident. Placing a hand over his heart, where he knew the crucifix lay, the android quickly buzzed his way back to the mothership, the Quarian ship too far from the fleet to return, did the same.

God help 'em.


	57. Guns! Guns! Guns!

The ships were quick to fall behind their guardians, the huge Battleships aligning themselves with the incoming Batarian fleets while the Quarian Heavy Fleet led by Admiral Han'Gerrel too made ready, weapons and shields charging while the Patrol Fleet kept behind; the lighter ships just would _not_ be able to handle the heavy guns of the Batarians which seemed to have similarity to Terran weapons in terms of sheer brutality.

"I want these squint cocksuckers' ships split wide open," Erik growled over the comms. to his mercenary fleet "I want our Longbows on their light ships; harrass them, irritate them," the 'Longbows' in question being the Space equivalent of a 'Self Propelled Gun', built _around_ their huge rail cannons that ran along the spine. The blade-like ships assembled in a wolfpack and charged their weapons; the pilots inside watching their targeting computers waiting for the Batarian ships to get into range.

Inside one of the Longbows, the railgun's huge energy stores built energy slowly while the huge things rose up with an electric roar. The blue energy within getting brighter, and brighter, and brighter until finally the Batarians came into view.

"Fire!" Commanded the Wolfpack leader.

The energy stores _slammed_ down sending the huge charge into the gun and propelling a slug the size of a cow's head into the void with a belch of plasma, a dozen bright blue flashes a lightning strike just before the thunder came. The Longbows themselves had to activate engines and thrust forth as the action of force out the front threatened to send them reeling backward. The slugs found mark after a second's waiting, the impacts making huge explosions in the smaller ships and splitting open those that didn't resist. A few of the slugs hit the larger ships, causing them to shudder and groan from the impact, but the shields _did_ manage to take some of the impact, just enough to make it so the projectile wasn't an immediate death sentence.

The Quarian Heavies immediately set into action when their enemy came into range, close enough that the Batarians shouldn't have enough time to react, and fired heavy cannons at their enemy. The Batarian ships, now being fired upon by _much_ smaller projectiles could absorb the strikes, although with a teeth gnashing irritation present in the Batarian marines at their enemies insolance.

Frigates, smaller than normal, an ugly brown and grey mish-mash of welded metal (showing just how in the shit the Hegemony was to the Terrans, causing a number of laughs) hit the engines into overdrive and barreled right at the Quarian heavy ships, not suicidal enough to attack a Terran battleship, but _just_ enough to attack a 'Suit rat' heavy ship. The shields were strong, off the charts even, bolstered by _something_ while the guns just continued to fire. Behind the frigate, the battleships and cruisers kept on firing; explosions erupting over the flesh of the Quarian ships. The shields, beginning to get overwhelmed, wouldn't be able to hold out much longer!

That's when the Frigate hit, an ugly monstrosity that, with a makeshift battering ram affixed to the front, opened up a hole in the side of a Quarian heavy and overloaded its generator.

The explosion was glorious, devastating, and a blood-chilling loss to both the Terrans and Quarians.

One of the heavies..had just been suicide bombed wide open.

Those areas that weren't vented into the void, civilians inside to die an awful death from the damage to their suits, were sealed off by emergency bulkheads. However, the damage was done and the ship was no longer usable as far as the fight went.

The Terran Longbows fired once again, a slam of energy stores sent the energy into the railgun and fired another bovine head sized slug at the Batarians, whom sent another Frigate at another Heavy.

Erik's Battleship opened right up, firing slugs with belches of plasma fire and firing the smaller, energy based weapons at the Frigate in a desperate attempt to destroy the bomber before it got to its destination.

Thankfully, due to heavier Terran guns, the bomber was annihilated.

Erik's ships went forward, the mining ships hanging back even farther (then outright running away, into another sector of the field away from the fight), the giant guns of the WW2-esque battleships erupting with a furious anger, smiting down what they could like the Gods of Old. The Batarians brought in reinforcements, another bunch jumping in from behind.

"Erik!" Han'Gerrel called in over the comms. distressed and shaking with fury "I've lost the Dar'Annah! I can't lose another ship like that!"

"Let me handle what I can! My guns will open them up, attack when you can but for GOD's sake don't lose another one!"

"Aye Aye!"

"Guns guns guns!" Erik commanded watching from his screen the scene before him: Batarian ships like a disgusting mass surging toward them oozing with malice.

 _'Guns guns guns'_ , a powerful phrase for Terrans meaning in all essence: Let slip the hounds of War and take no prisoners.

The Longbows, as quick as they could, opened up on the fleet picking targets at will. The order heard loud and clear amongst _all_ ships, the void was a plasma choked hell as slugs of varying sizes screamed a hellish path at the Batarian fleets.

" _Guns guns guns!"_ roared back other captains, their own guns joining the orchestra of war opening up on the Batarian fleet with an almost amusing fury.

But there were no smiling faces upon the Terrans, all were dedicated to their duty and making sure the gunners got their information.

The Erik's fleet pushed closer, Longbows sticking with them to take advantage of the mobile cover, and in the arsenals and broadsides men and women in manned guns watched in their computers and viewing screens just _itching_ for a chance to get at the damned Batarians.

They got their chance, feet depressing pedals that fired shot after shot, the hammers striking the huge primers on the shells and sending a half-ton slug after half-ton slug at the Batarian ships that got too close, the Batarians returning in kind with their own shot cutting gouges into the Terran craft. This..gave the Terrans a second's pause, the Batarians were actually able to _hurt_ them. Few Alien ships have been able to do _that_ much against their ships, minusing of course the Turians but even then!

Shaking from their reveries, the Terrans roared into their cockpits and slammed the pedal to the medal as they fired and fired, shells clanging behind them onto the floor that were retrieved by engineers and sent rolling into a brass catcher for later reloading (or, failing that, smelting).

The Batarians did to the Terrans what they did with the Quarians, sending supercharged frigates at the ships in a desperate suicide bombing.

The difference between Terran and Quarian enginering was staggering, ontop of the magitek employed, as the suicide bomber _definitely_ hurt the ship and, indeed to the sadness of those on the ships (and the ships themselves) killed many of the crew. But, stubborn as the Terrans are, they continued firing even as another, and another, bombed them and finally took one of the ships into a list, capsizing and spelling the death of the ship and her crew.

Erik's eyes blazed, a fire bubbling in his belly as _Mary Anne_ continued her volleys.

The Batarian ships were falling apart under a relentless assault of Terran railcannon, powder cannon, and Quarian assault gun, though they never ceased to attack relentlessly.

 _Something's wrong_ , Erik thought, _They're mindless. Why are they fighting like this?_

Fearing the worst, Erik called for a quick slaughter of the Batarian fleet.

Indeed, the slaughter was fast, vicious, and radiated malice from all three fleets.

When all was said and done, the Batarian fleet was a shambles of wrecked metal and gutted husks. The Quarians suffered casualties, as did the Terrans, but Erik even in victory was concerned.

This didn't feel right.

"Captain Erik," said an ensign getting his attention.

"Yes?"

"Han'Gerrel for you, sir," the ensign motioned at the screen.

"Put him on," Erik nodded.

"Captain," Han'Gerrel bowed his head _just_ slightly, enough for respect, "Thank you for your help with the Batarians. I..don't want to think what would have happened had you not been here as well."

"You would've lost more of your ships, Admiral," Erik supplied, brows furrowed deep "As I would have. Are your people safe?" Erik asked, the question turning to ash in his mouth.

"Those that live, yes," Han frowned behind his helmet, left hand holding his bent elbow while the right covered the mask in the closest the Quarians could do to massaging temples "We lost..too many, today."

"I wish I could've done more, Admiral, I am so sorry." Erik frowned, _Mary Anne_ radiating sadness and the crew equally in the shit.

"You did, Captain, you protected us from overcharged Batarians."

"Speaking of, what was up with that? Are they ever so bold? So..mindless?"

"They're ruthless and have no qualms against brutality, but no they're never so stupid. Their attacks are co-ordinated, devastating, and they get out fast. This..they were just running blind."

"Aye, I thought as much. I don't know what it is with them, those that attacked us, but I know we have to be on our guard. Are your people still wanting to mine? We'll stay here, just incase."

"Yes, Captain, and please do," Han nodded thankful for the Terrans' assistance "I'm in your debt."

"Just helping a Neighbor, Admiral."

"Han'Gerrel, out."

"Erik Haggard, out."

* * *

(First space battle. Not particularly thrilled with it but I wanted to try it.)

(Also fuck this updating slowly bullshit in its ears.)

(Also, what would you like to see next? I'm trying to get back into the swing of things.)

(While I'm rambling here, I'm trying also to do my Fallout fic, Welcome To The Republic! If yer interested, give it a looksee. I'd appreciate it.)


	58. Equivalent exchange

Victory was hollow, for the Terrans, and for the Quarians. The way the Terrans saw it, being the bigger and stronger ships they failed to stop the Quarian ship, Dar'Annah, and Gods know how many Quarian civilians and soldiers, compounded by their own peoples' deaths and the loss of a ship, it just didn't seem a victory. Erik, the crew, _Mary Anne_ , and the other ships radiated sadness, rage, and dissapointment at their own losses. The mining transports did their best to find any Quarian or Terran corpses, or in the case of Quarians the odd _survivor_ due to their suits, floating in the void.

Taxied between home and pyre, the corpses and survivors' numbers were too high on one and too low on the other.

"Erik Haggard to Han'Gerrel," Erik called in somberly, face pulled down in a slight frown. It's all he'd allow himself to show.

"Han'Gerrel here," Han's voice was as sorrowful as Erik felt, the obvious after-effects of sniffling evident in his voice "Thank you, Erik, for helping us."

"I didn't do enough, Captain, your people perished as did mine."

"You did more than what could've happened, we lost the Dar'Annah, but we could've lost so much more. This loss, though, is high for my people. We're only 17 million strong, we can't lose more ships."

"The Alliance is on the way, one of the navy Captains, Shepard, is going to act as our guard here for now. My employer has decided to help you further with the mining. After that..God only knows, it's upto the good graces of the Captain coming here."

"I understand. Thank you, Captain. So many would rather us wither and die."

"Depending on the Alliance's decisions to come, you'll probably be getting even _more_ Terran hospitality," Erik smiled slightly, though 'Gerrel couldn't see it. "If you need anything, at all, just tell me and I'll see what I can do."

"You've done more than I could ask, Erik, thank you."

"Over and out."

* * *

The Alliance fleet jumped in no later than three hours later, Vyrillium cores gently slowing their revolutions to a crawl then spinning back up when the power was diverted from the jump drives to other systems such as shields. The size of the ships, compared to Erik's own, was a staggering difference to the Quarians. It seemed that the _Omaha_ was sent as more than just a guardian; it was sent as a show of force. The _Omaha_ , _Honey Badger_ , _Little Darling_ , and the _Bunyan._ A Battleship, two cruisers, and a destroyer.

Hannah Shepard was in her Captain's Chair, currently, while her crew worked at their terminals. Pneumatic machinery hissed carrying canisters of messages to different prts of the ship. The click and clatter of the typewriter-esque keys filled the air while messages, printed out from machines above the monitors the keyboards were attached to, slowly came out looking like punch cards with cut holes in differing shapes, sizes, and places followed the ensigns typing. When ripped out, a canister would be retrieved from the tubes and the message placed in, canister replaced, and the pneumatics would take it along.

"Captain Erik Haggard, this is Captain Hannah Shepard, come in." Hannah opened her communicator, the analogues of her computer flicking and clicking with her manipulation.

"Captain, this is Erik. Good to finally make your acquaintance," Erik said, feeling a sort of joy coming over him for more Terrans to be in system "I'm sorry I can't make my crew more presentable but we've lost too many people to care about appearance." Terran ships had pulled the capsized ship right-side up and it was evident it was being held in anchor flanked by two of the fleet. The Dar'Annah herself was being worked on by Quarian and Terran crews. All in all, what was visible was in ragged shape.

The Quarian Migrant Fleet was _massive_ and Hannah had a feeling what she was seeing was just a sliver. From what she'd read, there were _17 MILLION_ of the buggers on the fleet. Heavens alive. Much of the fleet was mining at the field, with assistance from more Terran miners, which bore into the asteroids as though devouring them from the outside in.

"I hope you don't really expect me to care about that, Haggard. After all, your name says it all." Hannah chuckled lightly "What, exactly, happened here, Captain?"

"Batarians, Ma'am." Erik frowned, unseen in the communicator "The Quarians and us met while I was protecting my employers while they mined. We commenced an unofficial first contact, since we're not Government, and my employer gave the Quarians permission to mine. During so, the Batarians just jumped into system and kamikaze'd us. They killed the Dar'Annah and the _Marilyn_ , one of my own. Captain, if you don't mind my saying, by the Gods they were _brainless_. No tactics, no running, just straight up bum-rush and suicide bombing. There's something wrong."

"I agree," Hannah nodded, remembering reports of the Batarian riots and subsequent Blackwatch operation there "Something's very wrong."

"I have more, Captain," Erik interrupted before Hannah could get her word in after.

"Yes?"

"The Quarians have no home. They're vagabonds, nomads." Hannah bit her lip a bit, she had a feeling she knew where _that_ was going. "And I'm sure you know, Ma'am, lost their homes a long time ago with no assistance after. Granted, it was by their own folly, but they've been alone for 300 years."

"I have a feeling I know what you're going to ask me, Captain," Hannah's face was neutral.

"We certainly have space for them somewhere," Erik said "On a colony some place, if only temporarily."

"I'd have to ask the Alliance, Captain, it's not upto me."

"That's all I ask, Captain."

* * *

The atmosphere between the three groups, the Terran Mercs, the Alliance, and the Quarians was silent and still. The Dar'Annah and Marilyn were being repaired if slowly, the Marilyn turned right side up and the holes being patched up as quick as the Terrans could. She would live, but her crew had not.

The Dar'Annah as well was near dead, as the Terrans felt it, while the Quarians felt it was already there. The Dar'Annah, as damaged as it was, was sentenced to scrap. She was dead in the water, regardless of what they tried.

The Quarians regarded the _Omaha_ with apprehension. The battleship was fulfilling its purpose as a show of force, however, as the Quarians were cautious around the Terran fleet.

The mining was a boon for them, however, allowed free reign of the asteroid field ('We'll find another' said the Terran miners, looking barely a system away for their profit) the Quarians mined their fill of all the materials they could handle.

The three fleets would be together for some time, three days atleast, while Shepard prepared a draft to be sent to the Alliance on the subject of the Quarians. The Terrans wouldn't just let the Quarians reside with them and _Gods_ forsake them living on Earth (as paranoid as the Terrans were about their home), they didn't do just free hospitality, except in some cases. A Terran may let you reside in his home, but more likely than not he's going to expect something for his trouble. You may get a kindly Terran who doesn't want anything, but your odds of either one was rather close either way.

But the Terrans were nothing if not practical.

The Quarians, if they and the Alliance, accepted could have a home, but they'd have to lend their expertise, labor, and and themselves to the Alliance for a time. Difference in technology not withstanding (they'd learn), the Quarians would add to what they subtracted. Equivalent exchange, any mage could tell you about _some_ form of the practice.

Shepard frowned, tapping her pen against her lip softly.

If the Alliance would accept, it could be a help to the Alliance or it could be a hinderance. The Quarians win either way; get a home for the return of labor and giving a damn.

She saved the current draft of her report and clicked away her pen. She'd have to talk to the Quarians about it any further.

* * *

 ** _IN ITS EAAARS._**


	59. Zeek

_"...And by decree of the Alliance of Terra, with agreement from the Quarian Species of the Migrant Fleet and the Admiralty board thereof, we the Council of Terra, do so allow the rent of the planet Zeek as a home and base for the sum of 10_ Million _Council-space viable credits per year, the promise of labor, expertise, and service from hereon until such a time is reached when the Quarian species no longer requires Zeek as a home or some other conclusion should be reached._

 _By the powers vested in us, the Council of Terra, by those we govern, those of the Admiralty Board, and under sight of all the Gods of Man and Quarian alike, this Bill of Home is now ratified as a genuine article notice of ownership."_

The Councilmen of the Council of Terra read the thing with scrutinizing eyes, every single detail of the paper to the ink it had written upon it went under notice.

This offer, by Captain Shepard, seemed to be if anything a sheer win for the Quarians with little gain for the Alliance, aside from the good faith of those who couldn't barely be harmed without suffering sickness. Surely, there could be some alchemical fix to that but the Alliance had to think in it's _own_ interest in this matter.

The Councilmen seemed to bore holes _straight_ through Shepard as she stood tall, firm against the ocular assault while in her mind she worried she wouldn't be able to succeed in this endeavour. A stray shot of philanthropy, was this bill, and she knew it. While Terrans weren't against hospitality and philanthropy, infact the reverse is quite in effect, _this_ affected _all_ Terrans. A planet, if not all of it, given to the Quarians for rent while they recuperated and then what?

"You would have us give one of our colonies to these aliens, Captain? When they've done nill for us and we've yet to commence operation there?"

"Terrans First, Councilors, believe me I understand and whole-heartedly agree. But something stinks, Your Honors, and I worry the Quarians may have just stepped in it with gusto."

"What would that be, exactly, Captain? What is it that has you spooked, when nothing has done so as of yet?" The Councilor gave her more credit than she was due; plenty scared her. But it was her ability to beat said thing with a hammer that helped her to where she is now.

"These Batarians, sir, like the ones that attacked the Citadel. The Blackwatch _confirmed_ demonic influence. Erik Haggard, a mercenary captain that commenced first contact with the Quarians in the first place," One councilor made a face at the mention of a mercenary, which Shepard took in stride "told me as much as he could about the Quarians. How they suffered the loss of their home, how the Council refused to help for 300 years, and now how the Batarians just suicide bombed them without tactic and without thought.

The Batarians' attacked using frigates. We've seen Alien frigates before; they're weak in comparison to our guns," Shepard had to suppress a smile at the thought of superior Terran firepower "But even Erik's guns should be able to do damage. His longbows, for example, should have no problem. But even Erik's ship couldn't stop the Batarian ships in time. Their shields were, by his word, 'supercharged' by something. Mass Effect shields aren't made to stand up to something as huge as a Terran shell, not even _close!_ But _still_ the Batarians just shrugged them off as much as possible before they wedged themselves in and blew up.

They killed a Quarian ship, the Dar'Annah, this way, and one of Erik's own, Marilyn."

The fact that a Terran ship, with _Terran_ guns, couldn't fell a frigate of all things worried the councilors.

"Perhaps they just wised up to Terran weaponry?" Asked a councilor, an Android. His tone, however, said even _he_ didn't believe what he just said.

"Councilor, with all due respect, unless they're abandoning Element Zero for some other equivalent, in which case we need to find and secure it or some of it, that's just not possible. Mass Effect shields can't stand up against the standard Railgun shell and infantry shields can't block a Terran 5.56 or .308 or other cartridges. The Batarians may shy away _some_ from the typical alien weapon-tree, but not so much that they're resistant to our weapons. Something's wrong, sir, and the Quarians if they were attacked by a more dedicated fleet they'd all be wiped out."

"What, precisely, do you think we'd get from their rent of Zeek Captain?"

"300 years on a fleet of spaceships with little to no outside help, while being vilified by most of the galactic community, and surviving by being scrappy and resourceful? I see parallels between us and them, Councilors, after The Omen War." The Councilors froze at the mention of those most dreaded, The Omen. "You know your history and so do I. The second world war, with magic and iron and blood and brass being used as a weapon already made what was a terrible conflict even worse, the after-effect of all that death, all that misery, made The Others explode outward from their holes, twist man and machine into harbingers of what we thought our end.

The Second World War could've ended with the dropping of the bombs, with Hitler's end, and with what would've evolved into a war frozen by an unstoppable force and an immovable object. Instead, it evolved into hell on earth, almost wiping out our combined species and almost ending our home. But we live! We fought, we slaughtered The Omen and made them scream into their holes again." Images of The Omen, twisted wretches, corpses fused with metal and lashed to sick appratuses and forced to continue against their will against the living, caused a slight shudder in the Councilmen present. It was all they'd allow themselves.

"We're alive because we're scrappy, strong, and resourceful. The Quarians didn't suffer The Omen, but they did suffer the Geth. They suffered being ostracized for what they did, albeit somewhat understandable the situation."

One Councilor nodded, but gave a soft cough "Yes, I see the parallels. But what do we have to _gain_ Shepard, _gain_ from their renting? Element Zero? We have no use for it; we have magic. Credits would be helpful, for trade, but we can get that relatively easy as a collective. Engineering expertise? They've never used our tools, Shepard. If the codexies I've read are any indication, they can't suffer a suit breach. Which for Terran tactics, makes them effectively useless for us."

Shepard bit the inside of her cheek a bit, ghost of a frown trying to bring her expression down. "Depending on their co-operation with us, we may be able to help them to be more useful to us in terms of service."

"Such as?"

"If they agree, we could give them some armor fit to their bodies, give them Terran weaponry. Their experience with technology used by aliens like those of the Council races can also be a boon to us. There are things we simply cannot get to, an entire universe of data we can't access, because our technology is so incompatible. The Quarians are experts with it. That last bit alone is a huge boost for us, if we want _any_ advantage in their technology."

The councilor frowned, rubbing his face tiredly looking at the bill again.

"Captain, I hope you know if we accept this bill and it goes south for us, it's _your_ head that rolls."

"I'm well aware, Councilor, I am." Shepard nodded, knowing that _wasn't_ a figure of speech. She'd be executed for a failure like that.

"...We will think on this, Captain. Give us some time."

"As you need, Councilors. All I ask is you consider it."

"Over and out." The connection was cut, the communicator severing any connection with Terra. The signal attaching to comm. buoys nearby and bouncing off in heavily encrypted signals to home. Slow as the Terrans may be on some things, communications they could atleast be halfway competent on.

* * *

After negotiation, headache, gallons of coffee, a few pencils snapped and more than a few private swears, a decision was met after much talk between the Terran Council and the Admiralty board.

Zeek, in part, now belonged to the Quarian people. It didn't replace Rannoch, not for all, but by the Gods if it didn't make many nearly faint of happiness! A home, a place to stay, to grow, to..rest, for a moment. The price, fair compared to what they'd be getting, was well worth to be paid. Terran ships, Erik's included, volunteered to assist the Quarian fleet on Zeek and with a mix of sheer Terran muscle and Quarian ingenuity, a colony began growing quickly as soon as both sides touched down.

The Admiralty board was awash with opinions. Han'Gerrel was dumbfounded at Terran hospitality (Although, one of the camp that knew Zeek would never replace Rannoch, seeing it more as a stepping stone toward home), Daro'Xen found herself pondering just _what_ the Terrans would let her get her hands on, Shala'Raan found herself thanking the Terrans, and Erik personally, profusely for this chance at a home for her people. Zaal'Koris found himself in a similar place as Shala, ecstatic that his people had a home.

Rael'Zorah, another of the Admiralty on the ship Alarei, was of a similar camp as Han'Gerrel. Zeek was great, more than great, but was a stepping stone toward Home. Rannoch.

* * *

Opinion amongst Terrans were up one side and down another, when told the truth of what happened to the Quarians there was a near global outrage at the fact, but there were many that could understand the treatment to an extent. Zeek was an unimportant planet for the Terrans, so its loss was not a major one, although the attitude amongst Terrans was, in essence: Do **_NOT_** make us regret this.

* * *

The Citadel was similarly frothing at the mouth, furious that the Terrans would help 'suit rats' and other unkind names lashed at the Terrans and Quarians alike. The silent minority were those that agreed with what the Terrans did, thankful that such a thing had come to pass.

The Councilors themselves were a story of fury and worry.

Tevos, the Asari, found herself roiling with biotic power that wrung around her while her head thumped and pounded with anger. The Goddess-damned Terrans _always_ did _something_ and she swore it was just to spite her! An appliance was flung at the wall with incredible force and speed, shattering the thing into a fine powder (And it was _Terran_ , probably why she broke it) while her voice was hoarse when she screamed out an expletive that was just unladylike.

Whatever the Terrans did, it always seemed to be just to spite the Council and this was just beyond the pale.

...

Valern, the Salarian, found himself socked with a pocket of worry. His room, brightly lit with no shadows barring his own (all his furniture was see through now), felt so empty with just him sitting at a couch. He worried what the Terrans would do in the future. First the Quarians, that was bad enough. What was next, the Krogan?

Valern didn't like that thought. It wasn't funny.

Atleast he had light.

His mind, sharp, had to ignore that his shadow was the only one in the room.

...

Sparatus, for the safety of his staff, had ordered everything coming to him stalled for the day. He hadn't wigged out like Tevos, or gone off the deep end like he figured Valern had. But this insult was just too grave for him to ignore. But what could he do? What could any of his fellow councilors do? The Terrans were independent, much as that _infuriated him_.

They couldn't invade, the drastic difference in technology and weapons made that just foolish to say nothing of the political outrage considering what the Terrans had done for them, even after the invasion of Shanxi.

Sparatus collapsed into his chair.

There was nothing he could do.

Nothing but seeth.

* * *

In a bar on Illium, an Asari merchant world with more fake smiles than Stepford, a giant red Krogan sat at a bar drinking down Ryncol, a drink only Krogan could stomach without melting from the inside _too_ much, sat Wrex. His experience with the Terrans had been a strange one. _Tonkah Truck_ , that made him laugh once he realized just what that meant.

He still had the magazine he snatched from that one Human, what was her name?

 _'Rastona,_ ' Right, that was it.

"Get you another one?" Asked the husky voice of the bar mistress, Aethyta, who regarded Wrex's many drinks with a grin.

"Yeup," Wrex nodded setting down his glass.

"Fine by me, your money. You hear what those Terrans did now?" Wrex's head almost rolled into his hump with how quick an eyeroll he gave her, a chuckle erupting from his throat.

"Piss in the Turians' ear and tell 'em it's raining?"

"Gave the Quarians a world! Some colony called Zeek or something like that. I say it's just to piss off the Council which is fine by me," Laughed Aethyta while Wrex choked on his new drink.

"You're shitting me!"

"I'm not big enough for that, old man," Aethyta snorted "But yes they did. Quarians have a home again, ain't that fuckin' something."

"Terrans," Wrex said exasperatedly before he chugged down his drink while Aethyta laughed.


	60. Crystals? Terrans

The speed at which the Terrans set to their work was staggering and impressive for the Quarians. Terran craft dropped power armored and exosuited men down from their bellies and with them the pieces for prefabricated enclosures. Where did they get those? Steel, quikrete, and rivets made up alot of the construction as man and machine worked in tandem to put up shelters rapidly. By the time the Quarians touched down, a number of shelters were already made. The Quikrete was still fresh, dried, and sturdy as the ancients would like when the frame was pulled off and used for another shelter or road or building.

The Quarians, as well, were set to work quickly after surveying with the Terrans where to build, where to farm, and other importances.

"Where did you get these pieces?" Asked a Quarian woman in a yellow and black suit with a white belly, confused as to the speed at which the Terrans began building.

"Ship," The Terran pointed up to the sky above "We always carry such materials. Never know when we may have to build or repair, so we'd rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it."

That made sense to her, she nodded, and crossed her arms looking over the progress "For people who use what most would call primitive, you build quick." Already, another shell was put up "You don't seem to waste time." The Quarian was aware just how ironic that was, considering what she and the Terran were currently doing.

"Time's money, ma'am, build fast and build to last. That's how Terrans do it!" The man thumped his gloved hand against his chest. He wore a set of dark brown overalls over a white shirt, thick rubber boots encasing his feet. He had a yellow hardhat covering his head, a strap around his chin secured the thing to his head.

"I see. What I don't see is why you'd do this for us." The woman fixed her gaze on the Terran, who grinned.

"A skeptic? Good. That's a good attitude to have."

"What do you get out of this?"

"The Alliance gets 10 million credits a year and labor. You got the planet cheap, frankly. Hopefully it pays off. What emI /emget out of this is payment. Time is money. Speaking of, got to get back to it." The Terran tilted his hardhat the best he could at the woman and buggered off to a nearby build plot. The Quarian watched him go, tapping her fingers against her arm as she was in thought.

* * *

On the Citadel, opinion of the Terrans was in flux. Some loved them, admired them deeply, for their brutal honesty and unflinching dedication to 'getting shit done right the first time', while others scolded the Terrans (and those that ran to them) for their hard headedness, brutality, and sheer disregard for anything related to a care in the world. Some just didn't care, they liked the shake up to the status quo.

All across the citadel, news stations were asking civilians (officers were attempted, but they rebuffed with 'no comment') for their opinions.

"On what, the Terrans?" responded a Salarian who rose a brow at the reporter who rose her omni-tool so as to catch his voice "I love them. They get shit done, they're tough, and they don't wait. When you only live to _maybe_ fourty that's a great attitude to have. I commend them for it."

"What about their recent actions with the Quarians? Giving them a home after all they've done!"

"Don't rightly care," shrugged the Salarian "Good on 'em, shows they've got a quad to borrow a Krogan phrase."

"The reporter repulsed, the VI in her camera almost followed until she ordered it stay fixed to the Salarian with a tap of her omni-tool.

"So you're of positive opinion with the Terran situation then," asked the Asari, who was firmly in the un-positive camp.

"Yep," responded the Salarian who went back to drinking his pop. Vita-Pop! A Terran product. The Asari ended the interview and left for other people to interview.

 _Hopefully_ sharing an opinion.

* * *

"First Shanxi and now this!" Bellowed a Turian, whose face bore the scars of war. He had scarring all across his face and part of his carapace looked as though it had been bashed in. "Damn the Terrans to hell, damn them and their suit rats!"

"What do you think of the Terrans recent adoption of the Quarian fleet? Giving them a planet to settle on?"

"Both of them should be wiped out for what they've done. First the Geth, now the Terrans getting away with murder and giving the Quarians a place to escape prosecution."

"The Council has so far refused to comment on the recent happenings-"

"Those damned Terrans did emsomething. /emI don't know what it is, but by the Spirits it was something. Their so-called Inquisitor!"

"And the Batarians-"

"Damn them too!" the Turians mandibles spread open wide with fury, fangs bared "Damn them all!"

* * *

"They're doing good," responded a Drell to the reporters question "Hospitality is something sorely lacking in this galaxy. My people know that well."

"The Quarians created the _Geth_ ," the reporter stressed.

"Three centuries ago," the drell frowned "That's a long time to be exiled for a mistake."

"It was a crime what they did!"

And it was a crime what happened to them!" The drell glared, her colors were bright and throat was a dark red. The bright colors caused an instinctive fear in the Asari; a primal instinct to get away from the poisonous thing. "What the Council did to them is a slow genocide, within another three hundred years the Quarians would all be dead! They have a Chance now!"

You don't-"

"My people were given a chance by the Hanar, when we would've perished completely otherwise. If it weren't for the Hanar, within a few hundred years we would've perished completely. Don't you _dare_ act as though I don't understand." The Asari backed off at that, the interview was firmly ended.

She, like many others, would find that opinion certainly was far one way or another. Wether they loved the Terrans or hated them, it was like a split. The Terrans, wether they knew it or not, were making waves.

* * *

On Terra, those Aliens that were allowed to immigrate there found themselves in quite a different place economically than in Council Space.

In Council Space, credits was the money of choice. It was a smart system, inflating and deflating and changing depending on a million things that happened.

The Terrans did it differently, as they used computers for currency too, but rather than electronic money or credit cards, they would use coins with inset crystals of varying size and color, depending on the value, and used steel punch cards, about the size of a dollar bill, with holes punched seemingly at random (which most would learn later indeed was _not_ random, but rather a sequence of numbers unique to them) which they could use in stores to transfer money. While partially electric, the Terrans did mostly physical currency.

Not only that, but the Terrans didn't use Fiat money, rather they used backing. But rather than anything like gold, or eezo, they used a currency only they could make. An artificially grown crystal, grown to different sizes, which each bill would represent a certain amount of that.

"I don't get it," said an exasperated Turian who handed a steel punch card to the bank teller "What's the point of these crystals?"

"We use them like fuses, see," The teller said as she slid the card into a slot and punched in a few numbers in her computer "Fuses amongst other things. They're as practical as they are pretty. Gold's still valuable, sure, but asteroid mining kind of sinks that. So these crystals are the only thing we can't find elsewhere."

"That makes sense but..why not just deidicate to fiat money?"

The Teller looked up from her work at the Turian who felt about six inches tall "Because Terrans like substance." The Terran pulled out the card and handed it back to the Turian in a wallet "Money's been wired to your account, have a nice day." The teller smiled.

The Turian left smarter, but still a tad confused.

Crystals? Alchemically grown crystals?

 _Terrans_.


	61. It's Time

"It's time to stop being children about the issues at hand," Sparatus was again the voice of reason amongst his fellow Councilors, one of which was wearing a composure of calmness and the other whom was wearing lighter colors than normal, but was seeming to keep it all held in. "The Terrans _are_ doing plenty to upset us, that's true, and we all know what we think about it. But this is bigger than our feelings. It's time we treat the Terrans like the players they are rather than the card wielding members of the community we wish they were." Tevos nodded at this, hands brought together and to her lips with the tips just under her nose as she focused on the matter at hand.

"The past...year has been a shock to the status quo, to stability. It's easy to understand what we all know, but not what's just arrived and is so strange."

"The Terrans are brutal but honorable, despite what they've done especially in combat," Valern spoke calm and collected, not the fearful he was not-so-long ago.

"Giving the Quarians a home is a thorn in our side, but we need to work _with_ the Terrans. Not against them."

"What do we do then?" asked Tevos.

"It's obvious their culture is of interest to so many here, and elsewhere. They do things so differently and act very differently. The Terrans are quick and effective. We can use that to our advantage. They've barely come into our space, we barely into theirs. Our technology wouldn't be of much use to them, they outright refuse it, but _theirs_ could be useful to _us_. To the galactic community as a whole," Sparatus supplied, hoping his fellow councilors would catch on.

"The Terrans also have magic, which is a wildcard factor. While _roughly_ similar to Biotics, it's so very different as well. That, ontop of their general technology and attitude, _definitely_ could be a boost. But what do we do to entice them to help us in the first place?" Asked Valern, who was already thinking in six ways at a dozen miles a second.

"Appeal to their philanthropy," Tevos says with a smile "The Terrans seem to have a philanthropic streak a mile wide if their assistance in hospitals and with the riots and...demons is any indication," there was _no_ denying the existance of demons and she knew that "If we feed them knowledge of where and how we need help, and what it could do to help the community, this could open up avenues to get dialogue." Her mouth moves as her mind commands, Sparatus' mandibles spread wide and up in a smile.

"There could also be the possibility of scientists on either side for study. They could send theirs and us ours and we study eachother in places we're allowed to better understand what one or the other uses." Valern nods, intrigued by the thought and possibility of studying Terran magic "Public opinion of the Terrans is split for now, but hopefully we can spin this positively."

"I'm sure we can," Tevos nods "We just need to get the Terrans on our side. Let more visitors in on both sides, perhaps, more visitors to Terran space and more visitors to Council space. Good publicity means trade means money means power, which can be exchanged."

"And knowledge can be gained on both sides. Granted, the Terrans may not be interested in our _technology_ , but they may be more interested in our cultures."

"Yes, yes!" Valern smiles "Culture, that may be what gets the Terrans."

"Are we decided then?" asks Sparatus.

"Yes," Tevos and Valern nod and respond simultaneously.

"Good. Then let's call the Terrans."

* * *

Another bout of coffee drinking, cussing, all-nighters for the Terrans turned out well for the Council and the Terrans both. The agreement was as follows:

The Citadel Council will allow more Terran visitors into their space, with visas prepared and ready for execution for Terran adventurers, and in return the Alliance of Terra will do the same for the Council in return: Allow more aliens into their space to explore, to take in the culture, to trade more freely.

The Alliance of Terra will accompany Council fleets onto exploratory missions as guards and equal benficiaries of the exploration should anything turn up and in response the Terrans will lend their experience (Mundane and Arcane) to the mission. During this, chosen individuals of both sides will mix on the ships (With obvious restrictions on where they can and can't enter) to learn and teach more about both sides history and cultures.

The Citadel Council promises its might militarily should the Alliance of Terra require it (although both parties doubted this) and in return, the Alliance will do the same should the Council require it.

The Terrans shall allow scientists and engineers of Council choosing to examine unclassified technologies (and if those should be held by a body such as a company, permission by the company is required by Terran law and will not be broken).

Both sides found this agreeable, and with a few metaphorical firm handshakes, it was set into motion.

* * *

A number of Terran ships met the Council exploration fleet a week after the agreements were made. Say what they will about the Terrans, the aliens had to admit they were quick for seeming so primitive. A number of ships, lacking the distinct battleship-esque aesthetic of the Alliance Navy, jumped into the sector set for the meeting just outside the Citadel's own protected space. While they lacked the battleshi-esque aesthetic, they certainly kept the military look. Wether this was normal for Terran craft or if they _were_ just a previously unseen make or class was unknown to the aliens.

There was one huge ship with them, the others seemingly guardians or scouts. The largest was a thing seemingly built in layers. A massive blocky thing with deck upon deck and bristling with guns.

 _"Goddess!_ Do the Terrans _always_ need so many guns on their craft?" Asked an exasperated Asari.

"Seems they do," Replies a Turian who eyes the thing with barely kept glee at the sight of the monstrosity. Surely dreadnaught level, in size, but it didn't seem like it was a military craft. It was long, each level and deck supported by beams and columns, a distinct industrial feel to the thing that made it look like a superstructure that was unfinished however the lights beneath showed that there was _another_ internal hull, _that_ being the honest to gods interior of the ship.

"What's that outer structure?" Asks the Asari to the Turian, who eyes the thing curiously.

"I don't know, no one leaves their structure just..exposed like that."

"I think that's meant to be that way. They have that shielding, Vyrillium I think they called it. Probably protects it from most of the worst they encounter. If you squint, you can see people walking there."

With a headache inducing squint, they could confirm that, yes, there were people on the outer structure in hardsuits walking around.

" _Terrans_ , I swear," the Asari gasps out with a laugh "And what of the other ships with it?"

Those ships, frigates they assumed, were of a hammerhead shape what with their rather streamlined body (with the exception of the engines causing a slight portrusion in the clean lines) and then flaring, horizontal head at the front. The lines weren't perfect, there were bumps, rises and inward curves in the form, but they were clean and aside from the fairly obvious areas for docking, they were quite in their class.

"Look like luxury, unless the Terrans decided to send a few of their rich along the way I wonder why they're here." Wonders the Turian.

"Maybe they're for us?" muses the Asari, wondering what luxuries the Terrans could supply them.

"Don't get your hopes up. We're probably gonna be on that beast over there," the Salarian says with a wry smile, dashing the Asari's hopes who gives him a glare and pout.

"Spoil sport."

"I know."

The hammerheads appeared to be unarmed, but as deceiving as the Terrans were, they expected the damned things to be all the same.

These three were amongst a team of others that would join the Terrans on their ships.

Gods have mercy on them.

* * *

"I don't like the feeling of their ships, I don't like it," complained a human man as he buckled on his armor and retrieved his utility belts.

"You're not even on their ship yet," replied a gynoid as she checked her gear for the fourth time "How do you know how they feel?"

"They look all wrong!" the man bunches up his shoulders "Eugh."

"Too organic for you?" she responds with a grin on her dark, synthflesh face, the wiring beneath was _not_ of any natural material. Not completely anyway. For the Terrans it was. For the Aliens, not so much.

"They just don't radiate like ours do," the man affixes a snapback cap onto his head and fixes the lip forward. It read 'Joint Alliance Engineering Corps" on the front "Ours you can feel. Theirs are just so cold, I can feel it!" His gear wasn't the usual olive drab, instead he wore a navy blue uniform that held fairly tight to his body and over that, the frame of an exosuit. It gave him a good couple inches height, which when first using it could take getting used to, but the extra two inches were because of the electromagnets that were to be used on the outside of ships or in other low-to-zero gravity environments. The frame climbed up to his waist, an affair of powerful but light metal, straps of strange material, and on the back of the frame starting from the tailbone began a spinal attachment that attached to a harness.

This harness, with hardpoints for armor or other attachments, climbed upward until it got to the shoulders and collar bone, where a gorget of armor guarded his throat and down his arms were the exoframe of his armored suit. On the back of his neck, a neurohelm's connector awaited to be used. Visible, due to his shaven head, but when his helmet was put on, would seal his body from the vaccuum.

The gynoid snorted and leaned on a hip "You _did_ choose to come here, didn't you?"

"Yep but I don't like it!"

"Well then don't bitch!"

"...Well, when you put it like that."

The Gynoid's laugh atleast helped put him at ease.

* * *

When the docking tubes met, with the Council ship containing their team coming up on the giant ship, the Terran one had to seal over the smaller council one. The two teams met, although their introductions were brief, and semi-excitedly they went to eachother's fate.

The Terran team, consisting of engineers, scientists, and guarded by a number of Joint Alliance Marines, came aboard the _Serinia_ , a once Turian ship now captained by an Asari and renamed by her, and were met by a number of military personnel which regarded the Terrans with curiosity and with worry, and when one stepped up, she introduced herself.

"My name is Lynari Heliria, welcome aboard _Serinia_." The Asari, dressed in a tight uniform that just confused the Terrans (More than a few however couldn't help but have thoughts secondary to practicality), made herself known as the captain of this vessel "Who amongst you is senior?"

A Joint Marine stepped forward, the armor a dark blue color. It reminded the Terrans of plate armor used by knights way back when, complete with chainmail shirt hanging down under the exposed armor, while under it all was a hardsuit to protect against the vacuum. The helmet was detailed, marked and marred by pevious fights, and had a thin visor (visible to the aliens, anyway). The Marine stepped forward and saluted "Sergeant Vikar Amuri, Captain," the voice came through a microphone in the helmet, male.

"Good to meet you. You're aware of your mission here, yes?"

"Protect my people, Captain."

"And I will protect mine. But as long as we're together on this ship, we're friends. You protect my people, I protect yours, are we clear?"

"Crystal, Captain."

"Good man. My people will show you and yours to your quarters."

* * *

The Aliens, when they finally broke through the threshold, couldn't help but feel a warmth overtake them. It crawled from their heads, down to their hearts, and then spread all through out them. But there was a feeling, a strange thing. The kind of feeling one gets when they know someone doesn't particularly trust them yet.

"You feel that too?" asks a Salarian to the Turian next to him, who nods.

"Yeah, I do," she responds "It's wierd."

"Very."

The doors hissed open, hydraulics drawn open.

The hangar they were in was huge, multi-level, exposed to an extent. Three levels above them, the Terrans stood in patchy rows. It was obvious they were expecting trouble and the rule of thumb with Terrans was: expect them to be armed. Each of the levels, guarded by thick metal walls with guards assumedly drawn up for view, had atleast a few of the Terrans in them.

The uniforms varied. From the navy blue of the American Alliance, to the white-grey of the British Imperial Navy, to the dark grey of the NNA, and to the light blue of the French army and sandy brown of the African Alliance, they all watched the new comers.

Down their view went, down down down, until they met the welcoming delegation.

A _Krogan_.

The Krogan grinned, obviously enjoying the aliens' discomfort, and spread his arms wide open and declared with a booming voice "Welcome! To the _Hephaestus_."

* * *

(Yeah fuck me trying to do politics, enjoy the paraphrasing. Don't worry, I'm not going to be delaying what's to come. This is just a set up and an aknowledgement.)


	62. Ah yes

"The captain..is a Krogan?" breathed the Asari, who felt her spine tingle when the Krogan grinned bearing his rows of teeth. He wore the same olive drab uniform as most Terrans, a yellow and black stripe sleeve covered his left arm, however, and bold black lettering read "HEPHAESTUS ENGINEERING CAPTAIN" confirming some of her worries. He had a sandy colored skin tone and his carapace was a dark, muddy brown that look like someone dusted sand over it. The eyes were sharp green and analyzed all of them closely. That grin was a mile wide, obviously enjoying their discomfort.

"The Terrans know how to treat a guy. I immigrated to Terran space when they started allowing it and applied myself for labor. You don't realize just how much these people respect someone willing to break their back for a hard day's work." A few of the Terrans above cuffed their armored hands against their chests or against the metal, confirming his belief as truth.

"But they let you become captain?"

"I'm on the Council of Captains. Hephaestus is more than any one nation's work and so they don't have just one nation's emissary here. They elected me captain because of my experience and will to work. So yes, they let me become captain, Krogan or no."

The Krogan stepped forward to the ambassadors, whom had to resist taking a step back "Now, while you're on this ship, you're gonna follow by our rules. The humans and mechanoids don't much care beyond that, as long as you follow the rules, respect the ship, and pitch in where you're needed. I find you where you're not supposed to, I'll show you what happens when you break the rules. Understand?"

"...Crystal."

"Good. Follow me, I'll show you where you're going to be sleeping first then we'll continue elsewhere."

* * *

Following a Krogan on a Terran ship was something no one expected. But, they had to suppose, _he is_ considered Terran now. No one spoke, Krogan had sharp ears, but they certainly thought.

 _'The Krogan have been joining the Terrans?'_

 _'They let him become captain?'_

 _'Where's the lunch room?'_

One of them was thinking differently to the others, but all the same they were confused and hoped this trip wouldn't go to hell.

The corridors of Hephaestus were huge, a good 15 feet wide and the same tall with little art or ornamentation in the halls. Expected of a huge ship such as this, but for the Terrans it was strange. The walls were riveted metal, piping both engineering and pneumatic messaging running parallel together before splitting off into the walls. They'd occasionally run into the odd engineer, wearing armored overalls, checking terminals and seeming to listen to the piping.

"What're they doing, putting their ear to the pipes?"

"These people can understand what's wrong with something by listening to it. Apparently it's learned over time, but damn if it isn't just about magical. We're here."

A few turns later and indeed they were. A door hissed open and allowed them entry to, what they assumed must be atleast _one of_ , the sleeping hall. It was large, surprisingly well lit, and wasn't as spartan as they expected. While not the lap of luxury, the men and women sleeping here had a bed atleast large enough for them to move around a bit and above each bed, dug into their alcoves, was another bed. Ladders led upwards from the beds, dug into the walls between the foot of one and the head of another.

The sleeping area contained what appeared to be a living room, with tables and benches in a clearer part of the room (illuminated by lights recessed into the cielings and walls) and there were the odd poster on the wall. Usually something to do with propaganda ("Courage today, victory tomorrow!" was one, with a number of men in the armor and clothing of various alliances hefting the Alliance flag over a mountain of indescript corpses) or the odd pinup (especially in the alcoves of the beds).

In..what seemed to be typical Terran fashion, there also contained a pair of vending machines. Some for soda, others for snacks.

The room had the smell of nicotine, with off-duty soldiers and engineers yapping to eachother, some subject pertaining to internal combustion engines and something called a 'V8' whatever that was.

Terrans.

"Terrans, I swear" breathed one of the Salarians with a chuckle.

"Welcome to the Barracks 'A', this is where you'll be sleeping. Your beds are the free alcoves over there," The Krogan pointed, the aliens following the line until they saw their beds "Now, let's introduce you to the crew. Attention!"

The soldiers immediately stopped, stood at attention, and faced the Krogan and the team.

"This here is the team the Council sent to learn about us, you especially, and see just how these machines work. You know where they can and can't go, they go where they're not supposed to, whack them one. They follow the rules, more's the pity for my excitement. Give 'em a Terran Welcome!"

"Ayyyyy!" Hollered the Terrans, confusing the aliens, as they appeared to give a salute and those that were drinking to raise their pop glasses to the aliens.

"Pick a bed and fall in, get your shit set up. I need to go back to engineering. Welcome to Hephaestus." The Krogan turned and walked off, footsteps echoing down the halls as the Terrans went back to their business.

"I'm scared."

* * *

"I'm scared," muttered the human engineer to his gynoid friend, who had the ghost of a smile on her face.

"I'll protect you, ya baby." They and the rest of the team were setting up their gear. They were given a store room to sleep in, after refusing the sleeping pods. Crates were layed out, benches set up, and cots were rolled out. The AJMs were reloading their weaponry, descendents of the Lewis Gun from way back when. Still a favorite amongst British troopers and with the cooling gel in the shroud it served its purpose with a fierce attitude.

"What do you think, sergeant?"asked the engineer to the Marine whom had removed his helmet, revealing a man of Indian descent with a closely cropped beard and tightly bound bun of black hair.

"Of what?" Vikar looked up, slapping the pan back onto the weapon and setting it on the crate.

"The aliens, sir."

"I don't trust them as far as I can throw them, frankly, but for the sake of democracy I'll have to."

"That's reassuring." joked the engineer.

"I try!" Vikar smiled.

* * *

When the exploration fleet left, the Terrans were already colonizing elsewhere. They were claiming planets left and right, expanding incredibly fast. This was to be expected by the council, and what could they do to stop the Terrans? Not that they even wanted to.

However, not _everyone_ was happy with the Terrans, although that was to be expected. The Batarian Ambassador however had called a meeting with the council in fury, demanding they give him an audience.

The best he got was a holographic board of bored councilors.

"Why do you call this meeting, Ambassador Vartek?" asked Tevos, calm and level.

"Those damned Terrans!" Snarled the Batarian with his many, many teeth, a glare on his four eyes. "They're stealing worlds sworn to belong to the Batarian people _by YOU_ and you're doing nothing!"

"We've not received report of these Terran landgrabbers, Ambassador," Said Valern with a boldfaced lie "And this is a Batarian issue if it's true. Not ours."

"You promised those lands to us! These landgrabbers are _stealing_ our worlds!"

"Ah yes, 'Terran Landgrabbers'" said Sparatus with a voice dripping with contempt and a barely suppressed shit eating grin while he used air quotes "We have dismissed that claim."

"You _DARE!_ " Ambassador Vartek snarled drawing a pistol "You _DARE!_ "

"Goodbye, ambassador."

The connection cut, the Ambassador holstered his pistol and ordered his people burn the office.

The Batarians officially drew out of the Community that day and in the Council's tower, Sparatus had a grin that was just dripping with mirth.

"I've always wanted to do that." He says, causing Tevos and Valern to grin back at him.

"It must've felt good."

"Indeed."

* * *

(Ah yes..)

(Also I wanted to thank Observer for the ideas he's given me (Such as the Quarians renting Zeek rather than just having it, that was great) and this chapter itself with Sparatus doing his (Sparatus') favorite line to the Batarians. You rock!)

(I know I've been dragging my feet, but I'mma do my best. Lezdodis.)


	63. Spark of War

The Terran attitude of Devil may care was something to respect, for damn sure, but there's always a time when such attitude could get them in trouble. So they found out when in the colonies being set up and those on the outer fringes of their territories were being attacked.

Nay, not just attacked, _wiped out_.

Those few snippets of video that could be found sent from distress posts of those colonies showed the Terrans exactly what had attacked them and it was little surprise: The Batarians.

What _did_ surprise them, however, is the images within. The Batarians weren't simply attacking, no. The Terrans knew exactly what they were looking at.

Demonic posession. The Blackwatch, upon seeing the images, had an uneathly chill _rip_ through them. Whatever was in the images was trying to glamour the signal.

Glamour, a magical blindscreen, was like a disguise. Hiding something's true form from mundane sight. The Blackwatch, experienced enough to see through the glamour, and could see that the Batarians weren't just killing, raping, and capturing their people, they were _posessed_. Monsters, like ticks attached to the back of their heads, guided their motions and gave them the adrenaline and lack of moral will to do the unbelieveable to their victims.

Babies were split open, skinned and eaten infront of dying parents. The elderly were corralled into death pits, where they were executed en masse for being useless as slaves.

Men and women, soldier and civilian, mechanoid and human, were locked in collars and many had the burns of forced demonic intrusion burned into their skulls and chests intruding in their most deepest inner reaches of the soul and mind. Those that had the burns looked broken already, although the Blackwatch knew the truth. They were locked in their own minds, prisoners of a hell they had no escape from.

Wherever the Batarians went, they left the trail of taint. Their very presence was followed, marred, by a miasma of The Others. They roiled in their sick clouds, lashing out at all that they so desired. These were not the rats that had been encountered on Shanxi. These things, they were stronger, intelligent, and were revelling in their sick games.

The ticks on the back of the Batarians heads, the size of a basketball, had their claws and talons dug deeply into the skulls of the Batarians, seeping black blood as they fed, then regurgitated a sick ichor into their host. Soon, if it hadn't happened already, the Batarians would be so far gone they would no longer be Batarians, but flesh puppets.

The Batarians went farther than just this, however, peeling the skin from their victims and wearing strips of it like sick outfit or even eating it. The corpses, flayed and gutted, were pinned to buildings, trees, eachother, and used as target practice. The hateful, malicious demonic influence began twisting the corpses, once recognizable as human became twisted gardens of corpses strung together by melting flesh and twisting bone, writhing organ and wailing spirit.

Their people suffering the worst blow, the Terran leaders wasted no time and had no patience to wait.

The video was sent to all Terran leaders.

 _"It's War."_

While the video itself was not aired, the news world wide and all amongst the colonies were alight with the declaration. "The Batarians, aided by demonic presence, have declared war on the Alliance of Terra and all of her peoples. They are dangerously close to doing what we did so long ago; bringing about another Omen War. Men and Women of Terra and all her territories, for the sake of our people and all those of the Galaxy, it is War."

Immediately, the attitude of the Terrans went from joyously hard headed to unbelieveablely grim for those that had encountered the Terrans at their best.

Civilians mobilized for war on the Homefront it seemed, sending entire crates of food and rations to local Military Stations and signing up for duty. All across the Terran territories, they armed themselves and made armors out of ceramic plates, metal sheets, and leather straps. Home reloaders pumped out ammo, sending some the Military's way.

Factories switched from cars to tanks, walkers, armor and weapons in the span of a week.

To those that had settled on Earth, Shanxi, and others, this 180 degree switch was startling.

"Do your part! Send all scrap to the supply stations!" Was emblazoned on posters, spoke in broadcasts on T.V. and on the radios.

"Send the fight to 'em!" Was another of a man in overalls hefting a Batarian soldier over his head, impaled on the business end of a bayonet attached to his rifle.

"Send scrap lard to the supply stations, bomb 'em to hell!" A picture of a pot spilling meat fats into an artillery station which fired off a shell the size of a Turian was another.

It was a spark of war, one that terrified the aliens.

But inspired many.

* * *

"The Terrans have mobilized for war. Entire societies are arming themselves and contributing to the material effort for the war. Their target, the Batarians, have destroyed many of their colonies on the edges of their territory and have enslaved massive amounts of their people, those that they didn't just murder. The...images..we've seen from the Terrans has been beyond anything I've seen in my long lifetime," reported the Asari who tried so hard to get negative opinions of the Terrans. While it was still not stellar, she couldn't deny the hell they had suffered.

"For the sensibility of our viewers, we will not show them here. However, the link to said images can be found below in this broadcast," indeed a holographic reel had showed the link to the Extranet source the Aliens had seen the images from "Please be warned, the images are beyond anything most have seen. You have been warned."

In response to these images, even staunch Terran despisers expressed grief. Beyond the pale, that's what it was.

Those that supported the Terrans begged for a way to help, but what could they do? The Terrans wouldn't likely accept it; they're so stubborn and they believe Alien tech to be near worthless in comparison to theirs.

Their hearts bled for the Terrans.

* * *

The Terran' attitude of hardness and sheer stubborness, born of need to guard against life's weathering effects, became justified upon news of the war. Some had seen the images, and found themselves in a daze of fury.

Terran religious leaders all across their territory, however, sought to corral this hate. "Do not give in to your fury!" Cried out a pastor to his congregation, a statue of Christ on the cross behind him, "Temper it! Forge it! This crime is one we cannot forgive, however God knows we cannot lose ourselves to it!"

"What they did to our people is unforgivable! Despicable! But if we lose ourselves to their hate, we will be no better than them. Pray to God for a swift end to this war, for the blood spilled will only cause more demons to spill forth from the Other Side. Pray, but prepare, and should push come to shove: Fight."

* * *

Shanxi was alight with the same staunch, tempered fury. Men and women, Human and Mechanoid alike, armed themselves, gave their scrap, and came together to grow more food, reload more ammo, and pitched in to do all they could to help.

For the reserves in the U.S. Army, this was it. This was what they waited for. While many would stay on Shanxi to act as a police force, others would be sent to Batarian space as was the plan. A full blown invasion of Batarian space and the siege, and possible destruction, of Khar'Shan.

Lukas was on his way to the deployment station, where he and many thousands of others would be shuttled off to war. They gleefully took to their duty, much to many Turian defector's surprise.

"You're going to war?" Theadra frowned, following Lukas to the deployment station. She hadn't signed up for war, she just didn't think she had it in her anymore, but followed her friend anyway.

"Damn right I am, I'm gonna show those Batarians what happens when you fuck with Terrans!"

"Lukas, the Batarians are vicious. You saw what they did! You..might not come back," That thought worried her. She didn't want to lose a friend. Not another one.

"I'll have died in service to my people, then." Lukas turned to Theadra with a dark smile, dressed head to toe in his gear down to his rifle and armor. "Regardless of how we met, I'm glad to have met you and been your friend. If I don't come back...don't touch my stuff," He chuckled, the two sharing a tight hug.

"You will come back, or I'll find your ghost and haunt you with my own life," She said, a smile just an inch wide on her face as she feared for her friend. "Good luck."

"Goodbye." Lukas smiled sadly and went onto his duty, along with a thousand thousand other men and women.

Suddenly, Shanxi felt very empty.

* * *

(Oh you fucking know it.)


	64. A special brew

The Terrans were no slouches when it came to preparation and those few aliens who indeed came to work with the Terrans (many of which had become Terrans themselves, and wanted to defend their new homes) had found themselves amazed by not just the technological strength of the Terrans, but the _arcane_ and alchemical power of the Terrans.

In the forges, wether on Earth, the colonies, in stations or even on the ships themselves, men and women both human and mechanoid were pouring over chemistry sets, magical foci and filters taking mundane chemicals and turning them into something very different. Potions, poisons, bombs, and poultices were created in vast quantity, an industrial scale.

Metals like titanium were cooled with alchemical mixes created with condensed magic liquids, created by mages that focus their magic from the metaphysical and aethereal to the hard, touchable material that would be indistinguishable from other materials.

Air magics, fire magics, earth, and others were used in the creation of these mixes. Earth magics, rare but necessary, were used to create a metal unknown to the aliens; Adamantium: Diamond hard, but flexible and malleable, made up the flesh of Spaceships, the skin of walkers, and the rivets that held their vehicles together owing their toughness to the unbreakable strength of the Adamantium rivets that held them together.

Mithril, a material named for J.R.R. Tolkien's creation in his story. As light as a feather, but hard and making up the chainmail and other armor backing the soldiers would wear and the metal of the aircraft used for it's lightness (Sometimes covered by a skin on steel), created with condensed Aerium and aluminum.

Orichalcum, a material of copper and storm magics, acted like copper wiring but more efficient. The very stuff that helps the Mechanoids to live and move as they do, the wiring beneath their skin and metal acting as the conduits of battery and life. As well, it was in use in..just about everything the Terrans used. From the power armor, to ships, to higher end electronics, Orichalcum was in use, a lustrous red-gold material.

These amongst others were used, created on the move and shipped out in multi-ton cubes to factories that would temper the metals and then be forged into items for the war.

Not ones to be disturbed while working, the Terrans just kept at it.

On the homefront, men and women industrialized what they could, trading in golden wedding bands and jewelery for iron replacements ("I gave up my gold for iron!" a motivational propaganda poster seen often in Terran space) and tossing iron pans to the crates, on the way to the factories to make more guns, more tanks, more ammo, more..everything.

The Terrans were well prepared for war, the people would not starve as so many had home gardens or had neighbors who did or ran community gardens and had livestock. For the aliens, who had never seen such a mobilization of civilian effort (military and civilian sectors were rather seperated, where the Terrans were more ingrained), this was a shock, but knew that they had to pick up the slack too.

Proctis, now a community manager in Eiswald, used his previous military experience and growing knowledge of the Terran attitude to help his people pick up where the Terrans needed them, where their fellows needed them. Crates were put together, cans of food that weren't stored were put in the back of the V8 Farm Truck he'd purchased. The thing was a halftrack, two wheels in the front with tracks on the back with rubber cleats. Durable, heavy, and one hell of a hauler. It wasn't painted, it was sheer metal, but had served well thus far.

"Pack 'em in! I want as many crates as we can spare loaded onto the truck," Proctis had learned from the Terrans that when you had a job, and a subordinate, you taught that subordinate your job and then the subordinate teaches the person below them theirs and so ad infinitum. This kept a constant chain of command, in case someone in the chain should fall or be otherwise unable to do the job.

It worked, because in those times Proctis had been gone on hunting or in another town to trade, he had his direct subordinate to hold down the fort.

"It's war, sir?" asks the Turian, who's missing an eye, with dark purple skin and white marks that she'd yet to change. Altana.

"Yes, Altana," Proctis nodded, taking another wooden crate and sliding it into the back of the truck "The Batarians have done it. They've declared war."

"Spirits," Altana gasps as she hands Proctis another crate "Is there no end to it?"

"In the future, Altana, I see only war," Proctis frowned "But I can hope. I can pray."

* * *

Navies of every member of the Alliance, from those of the Nords, to the Russian republic, to the British Empire, the American Alliance and everything between were en route to Batarian space, devil be damned. On their ships, the forges were burning as they created the materials needed. Huge forgeships, the size of a Terran dreadnaught ( _AKA Much larger than a Council dreadnaught)_ were plenty in every fleet, harvesting asteroids as they moved and melting down the metals from the rock, whatever detritous wasn't needed was either used for something else or reduced to ash.

Asteroids, lashed by magnetic tugs, were sent to these ships and reduced to their essentials.

An astonishing sight, a mobile war effort, that pumped out the weapons and armor and vehicles of war and deployed them to carriers still hot from the forge and hot with effort.

Huge tankers, carrying an ungodly amount of biofuels, were to be the blood of the terrestrial vehicles. However, Terran vehicles could take just about anything and make it fuel. Vegetable oil, fryer oil, gas, alcohol, anything, so was the benefit of a society so accustomed to IC engines.

Even still, the war effort snowballed on the move.

* * *

Vyrillium eliminated the need for the void forks, the Mass Relays as others knew them. The Terrans could start FTL without eezo, completely independent of the stuff, and while the travel time would be roughly equivalent (Travelling from the Terran territory to the Batarian territory would take about two weeks), the independence from eezo allowed more flexible venues of travel, rather than the mass relay-reliant avenues of travel.

Ducking out of FTL every now and again, the fleet spread wide and deep, communication was close and coordinated. Computers, like those of the UNIVAC of old though of far greater power and ability, did an incredible amount of calculations through out the journey, working with the spirits of the ships (which as those few aliens who came with came to learn: The ships were _very_ alive.) and the individuals working themselves, kept up the logistical side of the fleet's operation. Whenever it was planned to come out of FTL, all ships had to be in agreement of when and where.

It worked, to many's astonishment, it worked.

* * *

Naught a week since the fleet left, Shanxi was alight with the fires of industry (Earth even moreso, with space stations also joining the effort) with mines, terrestrial and otherwise, working hard to supply the war effort with material. Vehicles not set for abroad were sent to the reserve vaults or to other factories who set the vehicles and weapons up for purpose.

The bucking bar kicked back against Theadra's shoulder as another rivet was drilled in. She'd joined up with a local factory to build the tanks the infantry would use. There were new tanks rolling off the line every 24 minutes, new halftracks every 20, a new rifle every 12, a new handgun every 5, a new bullet every 6 seconds. The capacity was incredible and the industry was booming.

"I never woulda thought a Turian would join a Terran factory," chuckled the riveter on the other side of the halftrack's broadside, her hair pulled back into a tight bun restricted by a red bandana "Woulda thought you people to stay out of it."

"I have a friend in the service, he's going to that hellhole we call Khar'Shan. If this halftrack can keep him alive, then I'm going to build a thousamd until this war's over."

The riveter smiled "You're gonna build alot more than a thousand." Indeed, she'd already made 10 since the fleet left.

The factory was hot and it was hard work, but it was worth it. Theadra was never a good Turian, but with every rivet she felt more and more like a good Terran.

* * *

(More of a building chapter, this, but it isn't going to be a constant thing. All I'm doing is setting up the resources before we get to killing.)

(Also, thought I'd show much more of Terran magic.)

(Also, two in one day!)


	65. War of the Worlds

"I don't understand how they're so damned fast," Tevos looked at the reports with a shake of her head, unbelieving but knowing them to be so true "They changed their entire economy to war in the span of a week and are pumping out more arms than I ever expected. And now we have say of these alchemists creating completely new metals and they're using those for their military."

"The Terrans prepare for war, although they seek peace, with tears in their eyes," Valern said, hand to his chin, with a curious glint in his eye "They're a race of polar opposites. They gas the Turians, tear apart infantry, annihilate anything that impedes them, and yet they give such a helping hand when they see something they may've caused to happen, directly or no. Reading human history this seems to be in preparation for another scenario of the past. Rather than be caught short, they prepare so if they _do_ go to war they have everything they need _now_ rather than later."

"It's incredible," Sparatus breathed as he looks over the numbers, the reports, the vids, "They've built entire armies lightning fast and seem to have no time to stop. They're preparing not just for war, but massive losses, as though they're expecting it."

"Perhaps they are," Tevos frowns, not liking the thought "You saw the images that the Blackwatch sent us, after removing the glamour. They're expecting to lose so much, so they create so much to compensate."

"Like they did in the past," Valern nods, putting the pieces together "Their wars are so devastating, they have to plan for massive losses."

"Bloodthirsty, fearless, devastating," Sparatus nods, thinking before his mandibles fall "Expecting."

* * *

The news was alight with what was happening in Terran space. Between the Batarian attacks (many Batarians outside of the hegemony dropped to their knees, knowing that this could be the end of what's left of their people) and the Terran's mass mobilization for war, everyone was talking about it. Within a week, the Terran reserve army grew enough to outfit a number of medium-sized merc outfits with _serious_ firepower. Aethyta watched the news with worry, irritation, and saw the mass mobilization with envy.

The Asari Republic couldn't dream of _that much_ mass mobilization and civilian effort, she knew that. They cared too much more about sex, shaking their asses infront of aliens, and sucking up to the rest. Aethyta saw _massive_ potential in the Terrans, their capacity for industry, war, and what she'd read on the extranet getting their kids into working with their hands from an absurdly young age made her fringe itch with irritation that Asari children, rather than being taught practical skills, were strippers once they entered the maiden stage.

Rather than learn how a bandsaw works and how to repair things with simple tools, they were shaking what they had infront of aliens for money, becoming more and more helpless with their hands as they grew older, and being vulnerable when trouble came-a-knockin'.

And the Terrans were learning how to repair their houses, take them down, build them back up, work with wood and metal, and learning self defense from a young age well into their adult ages until death.

The last time she tried to propose that their young learn practical skills, the Asari Republican Council laughed the blue off her ass and that's why she serves drinks now!

With a sigh, she passed another drink to her friend, the giant red Krogan Wrex, who stared at the holoscreen with his face etched with curiosity and some other emotion she couldn't detect.

Whatever.

* * *

The Quarian Admiralty Board were just as astonished, and impressed, by the vast Terran mobilization as most others, although they also felt a pang of worry. To hold Zeek, they'd have to participate in the war. This..worried them considerably. Quarian Marines and Engineers stepped upto the plate, their loyalty to their people ensured that and in order to keep a home, they'd do it.

The Quarians that stepped up volunteered to the Terran war effort, drafted in almost immediately, with specialty gear, weaponry, and medical onboard devices dedicated to their physiologies. Leave it to the Terrans to make a species feel special.

* * *

The Geth, as well, took the news with astonishment. All their calculations said this shouldn't be possible, and yet the Terrans did it anyhow. A trillion minds tried their hardest to understand this force, this magic, but failed to do so no matter how hard they tried. Magic, and the materials it created, was so beyond the Geth that they actually felt _stumped_.

 _'We must monitor this situation,'_ said one cluster

 _'Affirmative._ '

 _'How best to do this?'_

 _'Strike from the shadows, the Terrans may not accept us, especially not with the Council possible to intervene on their behalf, and with the Creators' presence, it may be even more so.'_

 _'Agreed.'_

 _'Batarians now 'unglamoured' as the Terrans have said. Images are disturbing, ramifications even more so.'_

 _'We must monitor and assist where possible.'_

 _'Affirmative.'_

* * *

The Russian Republic made first war-contact with the Batarians, their _Akula_ -class Shiphunters blazed forth, silent but deadly, and unleashed a deathly payload of solid tungsten slug after slug into the Batarian craft. The sneak attack, assisted with blessings from Russian Orthodox priests, guarding them from Demonic detection until the attacks landed, felled a many Batarian frigate guarding a Batarian slave colony. While on the way to Khar'Shan, the Alliance of Terra decided that on the way they'd make damn sure the Batarians felt it.

The Batarian frigates listed in space, many split at the spine, and gave way into a flameless death as the Akulas continued to launch tungsten shells into the frigates and cruisers of the defense force.

After the attack, the demon-posessed Batarians immediately turned their attention to the oncoming Russian vessels.

Inside one of the Akula shiphunters, Kryukov Timofey Yevgenievich, Tima for short, glared behind his helmet, the neurohelmet enhancing his feel for his ship, and grinned when he saw his squad had destroyed a few of the frigates. Seeing the video and images, as many had in the Alliance Navy during mobilization, awoke a cold fury in Tima and many of those in the Republic's military. A fury born of his love for his people, and for the respect for others he'd gained in the simulations and exercises other nations had with Russia, that he would use to enact vengeance on these wretches, these Batarians.

Depressing a pedal, he fired again, the tungsten slug being sent down range by coilgun and burying into the cruiser that he was aiming at. A dozen others joined it, cracking into numerous Batarian ships until they returned fire.

Retreating behind their guardships of frigates, the Russian brawlers got in close and unleashed shotgun-esque weapons on the Batarian ships, firing 10 pound pellets out of multibarrel weapons. The heavy, fast moving pellets impacted soft spots of the Batarian ships, causing some damage, while others bounced off uselessly.

In response, the Batarians went into overdrive seeking for a Kamikaze strike.

The shiphunters, angling between the ships and with quick reflexes, struck down the Batarian suiciders without mercy.

Quickly, the Batarian defenses were thwarted and Russian carriers descended upon the planet.

* * *

Men dressed in heavy armor, padded with hemp cloth and backed by leather, they used their heavy armor and high caliber weapons to decimate lightly armored, tick-posessed Batarians. Slaves, those that weren't broken, were freed with tears in their bleary eyes while those too far gone were spared their existance. Clerics, dressed in longcoats with heavy, weighted crosses around their necks, blessed the ground they walked with a seemingly never ending supply of holy water, sprayed from their tincture bottles and spread like salt on earth. The presence of the blessed water, a very extension of their God's power, burned the taint from the land as it spread almost on its own.

Tanks, walkers, and men descended upon the Batarian positions with a speed unforseen. Sheer Russian steel crushed broken body and building beneath track and metal foot as a million men on a mission burned the hives of death. As they got deeper and deeper in, the glamour began to fall. Until finally, it fell.

This being a rather minor colony, it wouldn't be as bad as Khar'Shan. But it was enough to make men of weaker will wretch.

Bodies strung up, once just seeming like disgusting sport, now was shown to be a conduit like a streetlight spreading miasma everywhere, trying to infect where they could. Batarians, now unglamoured, could be seen true and the sight was horrid. Their faces, twisted and wrong, bore bleary white eyes as the soul that once inhabited it was long since gone, food for the demon they so worshipped once. Black blood and iridescent ichor dribbled from their mouths, ears, nose and eye ducts. Their armor, stained with blood, bile and feces, stank anew and the puppets' very presence was a cloud of sick miasma.

The Clerics redoubled their efforts, striking down the unclean like the wretches they are. Mercy was not to be found in these men, no, for the Batarians deserved none. Any with a tick would die, those without would be spared and imprisoned, and slaves would be freed and cared for.

But it wasn't just batarians the clerics worried about.

Demons, twisted monstrosities of chitinous skin and amorphous form given structure, stalked all along what once may've been beautiful buildings, but now were wrecks and husks; hives of sick and wrong.

Fleshy egg sacks grew from the buildings, the multicolored flesh of them a tell-tale sign they were stitched together from victims of the demon's feeding. Inside, screaming, moaning, and crying could be heard as though through the waters of the ocean, bubbling and distorted.

Every bullet the clerics fired were etched with the cross, every kill they recounted prayer, every spared slave they begged for their salvation, and every demon found was a curse against the hell that spawned them.

Vae Victus, woe to the conquered, so will be the demons that haunt this once fertile planet.


	66. Rangers lead the way

With the Russians cleansing a Batarian planet and the African union sadly having to destroy another utterly, the fleet ducked out of FTL again and decided on another harvesting run. Wether it was asteroids or materials from the planets, it didn't matter. Material is material, it would all be rendered down and made anew.

When coming out of FTL, the fleets received transmissions from nearby Citadel fleets.

The transmission was sent to all lead ships, but aboard one of the American ships, Hannah Shepard aboard the _Omaha_ listened to the transmission with a frown on her face.

"We want to assist in the invasion, the Batarians have our people too and we want to get them back. The Council has authorized us to report on news transmission what happens in the invasion, to tell the truth of what's happened to the Batarians, if you'll have us."

Shepard didn't like the idea of _more_ civilians being mixed up in an already deathly situation. This was an invasion on a _demon hive_ , not just some little skirmish slinging metal at high speed.

"To alleviate any concerns, we're fully trained military operatives, all of us. Asari warriors, Turian soldiers, and Salarian techsmen, we want to help to put an end to Batarian slavery and this is our chance to do so! Please, consider it."

Shepard had her doubts..serious doubts. She'd avoided the chopping block so far. Maybe she could again.

When the vote was being tallied, she put hers in the affirmative. Let them come.

While it was close, the alien fleet came when the vote was affirmative.

* * *

Recordings were played in Council Space showing a piece of the size of the fleet en route for Khar'Shan, and the trembling could almost be felt all the way in Batarian space. Ships of varying size and make, although most followig the aesthetic of the ancient Battleships, astounded the alien fleet consisting itself of Turian, Asari, and even Salarian vessels. The Terran Warforgeships were recorded dragging in asteroids at a time, sometimes multiple and putting them on a queue, and while they couldn't see the actual breakdown they could imagine as every hour another asteroid was sent to the breakdown.

"Goddess save us," an Asari recording breathed before cutting her camera.

* * *

On the move again, the Council fleet having to commence FTL as well as no Mass Relay was close enough to follow, the Terran fleet and Council fleet had to be in sync in order to let one another know when to stop, they weren't aware that on Earth, Shanxi, and other colonies, more Alien newscasters were reporting on the situation with the civilians.

An entire society, feeling the heave and ho of war mobilization, was not at peace but certainly seemed in its element with the hustle and bustle of war. Propaganda posters, normal for the Terrans, stood out like sore thumbs for the alien newsmen.

"Heave! Ho! Let 'em go!" a man, joined by many others, heaves up a crate of shells onto a halftrack by pully and chain. The crate containing those shells fired by Sherman tanks, the heavy and large projectiles joined by a dozen crates filled with the same projectiles. The men were sweating through their clothes, skin red and taut from stress but even still they continued on until they couldn't fit anymore crates onto the halftrack's bed.

...

A woman shouts through the bullhorn in her hand, a language the aliens cannot understand, but her fervor and the drive in her words rallies the men and women on. Crates of rifles, the descendents of AK47s, and ammunition are loaded onto 18 wheel mammoth trucks, the huge diesel engines roaring alive as the driver depresses the pedal and sends white smoke into the air. Fired up by the display, the men and women pick up the pace.

"As you can see, the Terrans have industrialized their civilian population and are sending millions of crates of weapons and ammo to supply stations across the Terran territories." Women could be heard singing, while not understood by the aliens, the ritualistic thumping and pounding of drums and clack of sticks made it seem obvious for the aliens it was like a seance, or a prayer. If only they could understand the language, the translators not perfect and not fine tuned to _all_ the myriad Terran languages, they would understand that the women were calling to ancient gods to protect their sons, fathers, and brothers on the frontline and to bring them back home safe and failing that to take them to the afterlife safely.

...

The rituals of many nations were recorded, a frightening vision for some, but the sheer industriousness of the Terrans impressed all that saw it. The Terrans seemed to pay no heed to the aliens, not unless they themselves were Terran as well, as their rituals, prayers, seances, and in some cases sacrifices of food, drink, and animal blood to their gods continued on. Prayers and beseechings to bring back the men sent off to war safely, to lend their otherworldly strength to the Terrans sent to war, and prayers that the Batarian scum infected by the demons would get their justly deserved punishment for their trangsressions.

...

The Terrans on the fleets could feel the warmth of prayer and answered begging fill them with determination. Determination to come home safe, to put an end to the Batarian horde, and to make safe once more their people. Most on the fleet would pray often in return for the service done to them by their loved ones, and more than one could feel the gods with them there. The effigies, shrines, and temples built in the ships were alive with the visages of gods, symbols, and with the presence of the deities they payed homage to.

Something the aliens would fail to understand is the Terran' attitude for their gods, for their people, and for the sheer unbreakable will of a people refusing to lose their home to _any_ demonic threat.

* * *

"Khar'Shan coming up!" The roar of a million million soldiers of Terra and warriors of the Gods shook the ships and rumbled space itself, the ships burning with pride and shaking with a trembling anticipation for the war to come.

Every ship prepared the hell that was to come, and the hell to be dropped on Khar'Shan, and in the midst of the ships were the unmistakable silhouette and color of the Blackwatch. While present on every ship, the Blackwatch's own Motherships were present in the fleet and carried with them the supply to hopefully cleanse Khar'Shan of its taint.

Failing that...

* * *

The songs of the priestwomen and shamans, witch-doctors and druids rang in the ears of every man and woman that loaded up into the orbital shockshells, dressed head to toe in exoarmor and armed to the teeth ready for the war they so awaited. Will unshaken by fear, unstoppable short of the Gods themselves, and tempered, forged, and drawn by the words and actions of their priests and of the Blackwatch clerics that helped to bless their armor.

Mages of every school were present. Necromancers, Pyromancers, Aeromancers and even the rare Terramancer were present. Enchanters, a school unseen by aliens, used their talent to inscribe runes into the weapons of Warpriests and into their bullets, with every bullet inscribed and blessed so too were a thousand silver bullets, a bullet of steel cover with a core of liquid silverflame surrounded by glass. Once fired and impacting a demon or impure being, the steel mushrooms like a hollowpoint bullet sending the energy into the target, then the glass shatters and the silverflame core erupts. A fantastic weapon built for deathly purpose.

Millions of them were made, as the silver supply from the many asteroids were vast, and even still they were being made in the Blackwatch alchemical forges, as well as adamantium weapons that would be used for millenia to come by the Blackwatch. This war, this crusade, this dark crusade, was one for the ages and the Blackwatch knew it.

They feared it, and what could happen, but hoped beyond all hope that they may yet save Khar'Shan.

* * *

"Rangers lead the way!" Hollered a US Ranger captain to the soldiers under his command, all of whom hollered their affirmative in war cries as the transport shook, being loaded into a Polybolos. They were to be fired from a cannon into Khar'Shan and make landfall with many others, followed by numerous others from the other Alliances to start the land war.

However, the fleet had to get through the Batarian fleet first, much as they had one.

Outside the transport, the fleet opened fire on the Batarian ships without remorse. Belches of plasma from coil and railgun were seen in brilliant flashes, the eruptions of plasma and occasionally flame from the Batarian craft, as those in atmosphere suffered damage as well, lit the Khar'Shan sky up and while from the atmosphere the planet looked fine, all knew it would be different on the ground.

While the fleet was in disarray, all ships loading Rangers fired.

The shaking was awful, but the impact jelly shielding guarding the men in their guards kept them safe and the forces that would've killed them were decreased to a mid-range headache, the ceramic shell of the transport taking the heat of re-entry.

"Impact in 5 seconds. 4, 3,2,1."

 ** _Crash_**.


	67. Boots in hell

When they landed, the gel helped to keep them from being knocked unconscious and when their hatches blew out and allowed thousands of men in total from the many many shockshells, the glamour failed and on the ground they could see the hell they'd landed in. A landscape twisted, sick and wrong by the unbelieveable amount of demonic taint turned the very landscape into a landscape of fleshy ground, demonspawn latching onto it like limp leeches as though sucking the very lifeforce from a dying world, the spirit of Khar'Shan crying out it seemed to the Rangers that fell upon it's soil.

Buildings carved of flesh, bone and conrete were hives and skyscrapers of connected tissue. Hearts the size of sedans thumped and pulsed with ichor, demon blood, and funneled it into Khar'Shan itself. The water was tainted a sickly iridescent purple, the blue sky tainted to a ruddy red color, and slaves milled around to their tasks wether ignorant or uncaring of the demons that whispered just behind their heads.

Sickly spawn, demonlings given form as they overtook Batarian bodies, like gaunt corpses given a mockery of life howled a screeching howl when they caught sight of the Rangers, loping after the men like wild animals, long arms ending in fingers like scythes and with feet that clack against the fleshy floor drawing blood from where their talons cut in.

Immediately, the rangers set to their duty and by courtesy of the Blackwatch their silvercore bullets tore the creatures apart as they screamed in pain. Behind them, the shock shells began to disassemble and morph, machinery hissing and clanking as rather than semi-conical housings they became buildings and set up defensive walls. Rangers ran back to the shells and in the armories in the core, they pulled out turret mounts and machine guns and set them up on the walls.

Silvercore bullets were fed to the racks and with a rack of the bolt, were secured in the chamber of the machine guns, .30 caliber beasts prepped and ready to mow down any opposition that would surely come their way.

Indeed it did, the spawn had called a horde of demonlings to their position and over the hives and from caverns came the horde. Twisted, sick, wrong, the hordes of hell were upon them!

"Fire at will!" The belt-fed machine guns chattered off immediately, sending silvercore bullets at the demons with each impact causing miniature explosions as the purity of Silverflame and the damage of the hollowpoint-esque bullets blew holes through the things and scythed them down like wheat in the fields. They screamed, calling out to the air as the rangers mowed the monsters down.

An easy defense for the start, the creatures piled up there not far from the shockshells, and with every death of the demons so clearer did become the landing zones the shockshells set up.

When the last of the horde had fallen, atleast for now, the signal was sent.

* * *

The mass landings all across the surface of Khar'Shan were incredible, terrifying, and devastating as the dropships and navy fired as the armies were funneled down. Tungsten shells, copper bullets of varying sizes and cannon fire blazed the LZs before the dropships hit the ground and so did the men, hitting the ground running and setting up defensive zones, quickly erecting walls of quikrete, steel, and with defenses of razorwire. Wards were inscribed into the walls, holy sprinklers and religious iconography was immediately erected. Already, the taint screamed and began to bubble and bubble, causing toil and trouble for the Terrans until it finally ceased.

The wards erected, the walls erected, and the men beginning to mobilize for an outward strike, the news crews were there as well and could nary believe their eyes.

"We've..we've landed on Khar'Shan, the Batarian homeworld and it's like we've come to a different dimension all together," The Asari said nervously, wearing a mask as the air was sickly, eyes guarded by a thin omni-shield "The ground is like flesh and the air is sick, the buildings are like corpses and..the things outside, they're beyond anything I've ever seen. The Terrans immediately set up bases all across Khar'Shan and multiple have started outward incursions. So far, all they've seen are minor demons, but as they've said to us here in the news crew "There'll be worse. The Batarians are coming." I don't know when, but it terrifies me because I know they're not lying. We'll be livestreaming the happenings here, as much as we can, to report the truth of the Batarians' situation..and what happens here. Goddess save us all. Gods save us all."

* * *

Walkers armed with machine guns, and those that're more humanoid armed with shields and maces, stalk the streets and smash out demon hives and chop at the hearts that they find. It doesn't matter how safe they think they are, the demons know where they are constantly. The flesh, like demonic mycellium, a very extension of the Demon Lord that controls Khar'Shan. The walkers, controlled by men with neurohelmets and the spirits within the mechs themselves, lead convoys of men and armor, each convoy with atleast one Blackwatch warrior. Every one of the machine guns, rifles, and handguns were armed with silvercore bullets and each demon killed was a little bit of cleansing.

Slaves, those that could be saved, were loaded onto trucks and sent back to the bases where they were properly cleansed of their taint. Those that could not be saved, were mercy killed by the passing soldiers. After this, they were given no further mind. They were long gone, the shells were slain and the souls were long eaten, much as no one wanted to admit it.

Rain.

For Terrans, rain is something most loved, especially the smell that it caused when earth and rain mixed, the petrichor a smell so many loved.

This rain, however, was a corrosive sick that stunk of rotten blood. The only thing stopping the rain from melting out the Terrans' armor being the blessed coating they'd gotten from the priests and Blackwatch. Anyone else without ward or blessing, would be steadily broken down as was seen. Broken slaves, dead and departed, were melting under the rotten blood falling from the sky, like the sky was the inside of a rotten beast bleeding upon organ and polyp.

While the demonlings fall easy to the onslaught of silvercore bullet and Terran determination, the terrans knew that there was worse on Khar'Shan, much worse..

Which they found out. The convoy, on a slave roundup, heard a sound that would haunt them for as long as they lived. A fury-laced roar like it came from deep in the gut, ending with a hoarse piercing scream as though whatever let out the scream had used all it had in the display.

The emitter of the scream would be seen soon after, as the truck carrying the myriad of slaves of many races was tackled upon and with the screams of the men guarding it alerting the mechs, the truck was turned over and gutted of its mechanics and the cargo shell was torn open.

The beast, recognizable as a Vampire King, was huge in size in comparison to most Vampire Kings. Skin bursting with muscle, fangs long and barbed with a tongue as sharp as obsidian lancing into the opened door of the cargo shell and pierced the bodies of many slaves. The Vampire had dark greyish blue skin, a mane of silvery fur covering from its head and down its back, standing on digitigrade legs. Its arms had vestigial wing membranes growing in the pits but aside from that would be useless for flight. Instead, the Vampire King was a brute force beast, arms as thick as tree trunks and claws razor sharp tearing into the truck like a wet paper bag. Its face was batlike, a large nose and extended muzzle of razor teeth, and its ears were large. Eyes, beady, black and barely glinting with light, looked upon the slaves with hunger.

The poor things, packed in like sardines in a can, had no chance. The Terrans, screaming in horror, opened fire on the monster with all they had. The Vampire King ignoring the Silvercore bullets and instead feasting on the dying slaves as multicolored blood poured down its face.

Irritated by the fool creatures interrupting its feeding, it swung the truck and cleaned house of the infantry that stood in its way before throwing the truck with a squeal of metal and crash of deafening sound at one of the mechs, felling the thing as it launched at the other: the one with the shield and mace.

The Mech swung the huge, flanged mace at the monster and impacted one of its arms, snapping it. Amazing the pilot, the arm fixed itself almost instantly, snapping back into place as the King screamed and tried to jump atop the mech.

Shield raised, the pilot slammed the thing at the King and sent it reeling back. Rearing back the mace, the pilot brought the mace down on the vampire again, splattering blood all over the mace and causing the vampire to scream before it grabbed the mace and arm that held it and jumped onto the mech's back.

With a scream of metal and the pilot inside, the mech's arm was twisted off while the King roared in fury and victory, forcing the mech onto its front and tearing apart at its back with difficulty, finally managing to get deep enough to pull out the pilot and with a hoarse, disgusting laugh as the pilot screamed in terror and pain of being so ruthlessly pulled from his mech, body torn and mangled but alive and bleeding from his suit, the King ate the pilot alive.

The mech, like pilot, died. But the pilot died much later than the mech did.


	68. News report

Inside a guarded, armored halftrack sat a news caster. Already she was weary of the things to come after all she'd seen. Slaves, crying and begging at the feet of priests as holy water and other cleansing substances were dusted, drenched, and used to clean the poor wretches. Mages of all kinds using their talents to burn away taint, clean the sky, and attempt to rectify _some_ form of normalcy once again.

Everywhere, in every single base set up by the Terrans and being constantly resupplied by the navies above, were silvercore bullets being supplied in incredible amounts. The Council armies were told to 'discard those plastic toys, they're useless and so is your armor' and were forced, not asked but _forced_ , to adopt Terran armor, weapons and ammo. They had no choice. Adapt or die, the Terrans would _not_ come for them should they be dragged off in their thin armor.

So it was, the reporter was dressed in olive drab gear and wearing a set of ceramic armor with mithril backing, leather strips and steel buckles holding the armor pieces together . On her hip, a double action revolver and adamantium blade, serrations along the spine of the blade, and that was it. That was her protection. She adjusted her helmet, strange on her fringe but she had to deal with it. The Terrans were strict and unwavering.

Helmet adjusted, she activated her omni-tool and started her broadcast as a knot grew in her belly.

"This is Adira Veya, Citadel News reporter on the Batarian homeworld Khar'Shan. I'm..currently in the troop pod of a British halftrack and am on my way with others to start the patrol. I asked to come along to do my job and the only way they let me is to don their armor. It's heavy, fatiguing, but it's the only way. "

With her were a number of troops of the British Empire's army, dressed in the green they adopted from their American brethren, all of them were armed to the teeth with their weapons. Most of them wielding Lewis Gun Mk. IV rifles, lighter, more powerful, and more reliable than an already incredible weapon. The pan drum was something that sent the aliens for a loop, but decided to just chalk it upto 'Terrans' and ignored it.

The interior of the halftrack was illuminated by recessed lighting in the cieling and between the heads of the seats. It was cramped, she was closer to the soldiers than she'd like but it was what it was. The men were stacked two men to her left and two to her right, with five on the other side.

"The situation here is..beyond anything any of us could have expected. This can't be Khar'shan, I always tell myself that, but it's inescapable truth. This..This is it, Khar'Shan, the Batarian homeworld. When I came here, I was hoping to find the slave corrales and markets of the slaves. Instead, I found...hell." She patched into the camera she placed on the Halftrack, with the Terrans' permission, and the outside was otherworldly.

Pustules leaked a sick liquid that slug like monsters drank from and the remnants of fallen Batarians, slaves, and Terrans could be seen all over. Cities, once bustling and a sick form of proud, now were thick with black, living clouds of some form of insect and connected by avenues of living flesh that howled when walked on or shot at.

"This is Khar'Shan now. I don't know how it could've gotten so bad, this seems like a nightmare." She says, voice wavering.

"You're _in_ a nightmare, ma'am," interrupted one of the men, causing the Asari to look at him and angle her omni-camera to him "This shit's a fucking hellworld now, the demons have infested it and unless we dedicate _all_ our resources to this place, I don't know if we can cleanse it." The man was saddened by his own words, looking down at the sheathed barrel of his weapon with a shake of the head.

"But the news reports from Earth, Shanxi, Amazonia and others, they showed you people mobilizing for war! Isn't that all resources?"

The laughter inside the halftrack was insulting to her and made her cheeks flush darker blue "Lady, you do _not_ want to see us fully mobilized."

That made her, and millions if not _billions_ of others, shiver, but pushing ever onward, she continued questioning "How do you know all this? I mean- what happened to give you Terrans so much experience? Don't say 'The Omen War'! That happened a hundred years ago!"

The soldier turned to look at her with a raised brow "Lady, do you _really_ think that there's nothing beyond our realm here? Come on! We have fucking _magic_ for the love of God!"

"What do you mean?"

"There's a hell for every religion and there's a heaven for every religion, then there's the general pockets, rifts, and bubbles of dimensions. Ours is connected to a million others. Some are stronger than others and so are easier to get at than others, but they're there. These demons, these things, they come from a bad place, a dark place, a _wrong_ place that we call the Other Side. Not all demons can hurt us, _most don't even want to!_ But then there are exceptions, like the aadass Altus Inferna that controls this fucking planet."

"The Batarians called it here, some time ago I don't know when, and by God they did something stupid: They didn't bind it. It's like playing with a ouija board without an experienced witch! Now they're paying for it, they summoned something to whom death is everything, violence is all it knows!"

"And..this Other Side..you know it to be explicitly real?" The Asari asks, trembling.

"Why do you think we know so much? Why do you think we never stopped advancing? War is the ultimate mother of necessity and ingenuity, if it isn't here we're putting down something somewhere! We all know it's fucking real, get your head in reality and quit with the innocent horsehit."

That's when it happened.

Her reality, everything she constructed to be real, fell apart. With the veil lifted from her eyes, she could see the demons outside raking at the landscape as though tilling a sick soil. She knew it to be real. She knew. She knew.

Her cast went silent and the Terran soldier did something unexpected: He put an arm around the Asari and squeezed her to his side "It's a harsh reality for someone that's never thought about it, I know, but it's true. The Gods will help, they always have, they always will. Trust in them and take matters into your own hands. Not all demons, spirits and Other wants to harm you. But there are those who do."

All across the Galaxy, a chill was felt.

The veil over all..shattered.


	69. A broken veil, a wretched war

The lifting of the Veil, that blinded so many so willingly, was one that shocked an innumerable amount of people. With the veil disposed of after the news broadcast, many came from their homes and looked to the stars and saw that they were oh so much brighter. A trillion stars oh so close, yet so far, an unbelieveable amount of information they never new existed.

The news was alight with not just the Khar'Shan reports but also accounts of what people could see and feel, now that the veil had been lifted, the masquerade ended.

Temples all across the galaxy were alight with the gasps of the faithful as their gods and goddesses came _alive_ , stepping from their statued temples and addressing directly their people, their worshippers. The galaxy was thrown for a loop, unaware of how to take this paradigm shift in society.

On Thessia, the Goddess Athame herself(!) addressed her people, her worshippers, with a voice most matronly but firm, steady, and reassuring, booming from everywhere. She wore a flawless robe of purple and white substance, to call it _material_ would just be insulting, as though it were made of star stuff. Her face was blissfully Asari, but so much more so, flawless in a way a Goddess only can be.

"My subjects, my beloved, I have _always_ been here, listening and intervening on your behalf as best as I possibly could. I understand my worship has fallen from favor, recently, with Siari being the most dominant belief. With this lack in power, I've been increasingly unable to assist as I once did and appear as I once did so long ago."

Athame held a tear from dripping down her cheek as she cupped her hands and then spread them wide, the long purple and white robe falling to the floor as she addressed her myriad of followers "But, with the veil having been lifted and your eyes wide open now where they once were wide shut, I am now more able to intervene not only here but anywhere you may carry me in your hearts. Carry me far, and I will carry you far. You are as apart of me as I am you." Athame smiled this time, the voices of her followers hushed as they watched her step back onto her pedestal and return to her statue-like masque. But all knew, she was as alive as ever, she merely was meditating.

* * *

On Khar'Shan, the war kicked into overdrive. The Batarians kicked into full force, the Masquerade now fully destroyed they had nothing to hide anymore. Batarians posessed or bolstered by demonic intervention fired sick bolts of energy at the Terrans, now fully twisted and broken and fused with weaponry that was unworldly. The Terran armor couldn't protect as fully against these bolts, but it could do enough provided the bolt didn't hit flesh.

Those poor souls that _did_ have the misfortune of being hit on flesh by the bolts were melted into their armor, flesh joining together and sick pus-filled tumors erupting as they screamed and cried. Vampires from on high dive bombed the Terran infantry while flaktraktors firing silvercore bullets tore at the sky to hit the darkened forms hiding in miasmic clouds and attempting to sneak on the Terrans.

In response to the aerial dangers, Airships were deployed with storm magic-driven weapons that portruded out the sides like tesla coils.

When the Vampires swarmed the huge airships, the weapons fired creating a magnetic-field guided cage of lightning that clapped with thunder while the Vampires closest vaporized, those farther away were either stunned from the air or had their hearts explode with the sheer power of the lightning strikes, melting holes where they once were struck. Unluckier Vampires were merely struck in the wing and through, causing them to flail as they fell to the ground screeching a horrible sound.

On the ground, men clashed with Batarian infantry in a brawl for the ages. Joined by mecha swinging flails on huge, adamantium chains, sending swaths of Batarian and demon infantry flying in mangled messes. The mechs, while they swung, fired machine guns sending 40mm projectiles of silvercore explosives into the hordes. Other mechs, firing similar projectiles, stomped and kicked and punched and swung carving swathes through the horde.

The Blackwatch, as well, were swinging great Adamantium blades inscribed with runes and blessed by priests, power armored men and women a near unstoppable force against a near endless horde of demons and Batarian-puppets. Silverflame, Silvercore, and other weapons were used.

Nikulas was in the thick of it, his Halberd of Silversteel swinging and stabbing and crushing with expert precision, but it seemed hopeless!

Getting the attention of one of his fellows, Nikulas threw the thing to the man and did what he didn't want to.

His armor morphed, changed, and magically adapted to his changing physiology as his bones cracked, skin stretched and grew thick, platinum blonde fur, and his face extended! His hands turned to huge paws, nails into huge claws, and feet grew nails four inches longer, much thicker, and sharper.

With a triumphant roar, he lets all near know: The Werebear had awoken.

Like a berserker, Nikulas tears into the demon spawn and Batarian puppets and all the Blackwatch near him watch their fire closely. The demons run at him, screaming in terror and fury as they hope to end the Werebear amongst them. Fools, they fall to the unbelieveable power of the beast and the earth shattering roar delivered rumbles the field of war just as the boots, metal feet, and discharge of weapons does and as Nikulas storms through the beasts, the Gods watch.

Amongst them, in the midst of the Nordic Alliance, a man with hair as red as fire and eyes blazing with fury, a brawny man of strength swinging a massive stout hammer around as though it was featherweight. With each strike, lightning struck the field and thunder clapped, the mallet's flat faces sending those struck flying like an explosion.

...

The war was raging, at the very least in this field and the thunder of guns tore the enemy apart. Massive, six legged spider walkers acted as mobile fortresses, a thousand guns and cannons erupting into the enemy lines while the walkers suffered damage themselves, the infernal bolts leaving marks in the armor and the more powerful ones actually began to slough the armor, but the walkers stood tall.

"For the Republic!" Hollered a Hellenic warrior, a man of huge stature, thrusting his sword into the nearest demon and blasting the other away with his arm mounted minigun, firing silvercore projectiles with a depression of the trigger. Mounted on his left arm, leaving the right free, and taking ammo from the huge backpack he wore, he wouldn't run out anytime soon.

"Awhoo!" Answered the Hellenes behind him, a thunderous roar from a thousand men.

"For the Alliance!" Thrust, stab, kill!

"Awhoo!" A thunderstrike.

"For the Gods!"

"AWHOO!" With them on the field, a man bigger than even he but eschewing the projectile weapons of his fellow men and instead using an incredible club the size of the commander himself! Blessed by Zeus and all the Gods, the Greek army tore into the demonspawn with skill and determination that the ancient Spartans would've been impressed by and with one of the sons of the Gods themselves, the Greeks would insure the victory of the Alliance today.

"Heracles! Heracles! Heracles!" the men chanted, Heracles himself wearing a broad chestplate of Olympian Orichalcum, different from the Man-made stuff, and bore a horizontal crest adorned with the colors of the many ancient Greek city-states in checkers. Heracles, joined by a thousand Greeks and with the commander at his side, burned through the demons like a hot knife through butter.

With another swift strike of the club, the demi-god turns to the commander and grabs him by the pauldron. "Proud servant of Athena, children of the Greeks, you do me and Olympus proud today. You all do! Today, you do us proud and earn your name as Greeks today! You, Oswald, are doing those who you saved proud."

Ozzy, being addressed directly by a son of the Gods, was astounded but stood straight and proud "I live to serve my people, Heracles!"

"And you do! And so we will! To war!" The war cries of a thousand and one sons of Greece shook the very foundation of the world of Khar'Shan and was joined by the war drums of the Russian Republic in a far off field.

* * *

Men and women danced through the field seemingly unaffected by the hellish battle going on around them as they played their drums and other instruments, singing ancient songs. Somehow, their very voices were _magical_ , the notes lifting from the various instruments and the effect of the notes became clear: Some would buff the men and women of the Russian Republic, others would erupt into the sky and return a furious rod from the Gods, causing devastation amongst the Batarian lines.

Songs sung from the voices of these men and women, these Bards, had a very real impact upon the battlefield and would change the line as they sang ever farther into Batarian lines causing a ruckus amongst the terrified Batarians. Even when the owners of the voices were silenced, their spirits continued on and sung ever onward to the service of their people.

* * *

The African Union found itself in it's element: Infantry fighting and maneuver warfare. The wicked fast desert runners of the Union found itself running circles and figure-8s around the Batarian lines, harrying them where possible and killing many on each pass. Finding themselves going ever deeper, the wicked fast men and vehicles managed to sneak into Batarian high command and get invasion plans and run back out. Once far enough away, Silverflame explosives were set off. Batarian bases burned, crumbled, and the distressed Batarians couldn't get control of the situation, so something else found control of _them_.

* * *

As.. _good_ as the war was going if it could be called that, it was in a stale-mate. While the Terrans could send _everything_ at the Batarians, they never faltered. Orbital bombardment, constant fighting on land, never seemed to get anywhere. But they'd keep gods damned trying!

But the landscape itself was taking a toll on those that didn't have an iron will. It was _alive_ in more of a sense than the Terrans already knew. After every battle, skirmish, and war fought, the landscape would twist even _worse_ , growing a sick callous of twisted, disgusting trees that looked as though they grew from tartarus itself. Even with the religious iconography, prayers, silverflame, salt and sheer Terran hard-headedness the landscape was getting at them in their sleep. The very land injected awful nightmares into the men, their worst fears coming to fruition in their dreams eventually depriving many of sleep.

Vampires hunted them in the night, no convoy was safe and the only place to get any supplies was from above. The demons also started getting ever the worse. From the sick, zombie-like demonlings to the greater Inferna Maleficarum and in rare cases, _Altus Inferna Maleficarum_ , servants of a greater Demon Lord, began to take to the field with fetishes of twisted Terran bodies. Temples of blood and fury were carved _into_ the demons that often towered over the men at 8 feet and matched the Mecha at 20, then even dwarfing them at _50_ , walking conduits of The Other Side, a mobile portal that just spawned more of the wretched miasma that choked the air and tainted the land.

The Terrans...finally met a foe that was difficult.


	70. Maelstrom

The ground bubbles and burns with every step he takes, his long red robe being grasped at by the long dead of Khar'Shan's soil from battles a millenia ancient only to falter and hiss when they grasp his holy robe. The Inquisitor has been to this field before, it seems, a thousand times, a thousand crusades outside the eye of his people. Not just to protect _his_ realm, no. The Blackwatch protects not only Humanity, but also protects others _from_ Humanity, to keep balance and peace between the worlds and realms of others.

His duty is not a light one, not one to be taken as such, and it weighs heavy on his mind with every crusade commenced and yet he continues on, as is his duty, ordained to him by the Gods and one he takes with stride as it keeps his people safe. He wades through oceans of blood, ichor, bile and tears, for his duty as Inquisitor is to keep the realm safe.

The Inquisitor's presence on Khar'Shan is one to be noted: The purifying flame will cleanse this place.

* * *

The Blackwatch's own industrial might was one to be amazed by. Recorded and broadcast by the news were videos of impeccable quality streamed to the galaxy as Blackwatch Flametanks sprayed the napalm-esque Silverflame all over demonic hives, the screams of the damned unsettling all those who recorded it and watched it. Most in Council Space just _couldn't_ watch and refused to watch the news. It was too much. Already, the Council was marking a record of suicides and those seeking asylum.

The Alliance Council were called upon by the Citadel Council, whom had never dealt with such high numbers before.

"What do we do?" Tevos tried hard to keep her tone from begging "So many of our people have broken after the Unveiling, either commiting suicide or going into asylum after the realization and I must admit it's hard to blame them. How did you deal with it?"

"The Unveiling was as rough for us as it was for you, I can assure you," replied one of the Councilmen "Many of our people simply could not handle it. Your people are still adjusting and if I can graph the reaction of our Gods to the reaction of yours, they will be steadied by the will of the Gods. Otherwise, I think it would be best to hold on the broadcasts from Khar'Shan for now and focus on repairing the damage the Unveiling has done. It will pass, the shock, it will pass."

"Pray and wait? Is that it?" Tevos asks bewildered "How is that going to help?"

"More than you think! Now stop wasting time asking us, you know your people I'd hope. Get to it! Save them!" The connection was cut.

Tevos was in a bind..she didn't know her people as well as she needed.

* * *

While the broadcasts were sent out, they were being held by order of the Council so as to not cause _more_ suicides and asylum seeking. Religious leaders, both of the native alien religions and the strange few who had _converted to Terran religions_ set to comforting their followers with scripture and calming words, temples and statues erected in public places and hidden alcoves had images of the Gods they revered and gave _some_ form of rock to hold onto in the storm of the unveiling.

Indeed, even the odd Human priest was there in those churches that shared their faith and did their best to share their experience and bolster the faith of those that were beginning to wane.

* * *

Whatever demon had created these things, had spawned in such a hellish landscape, was not going to stop. The Elder knew this. Khar'Shan's fate was a foregone conclusion, the Elder knew this. Even so, he knew he had to do something.

And so did the Elder, the ancient, come unto the field of battle walking as though in a plane all his own seperate from the war. Men and demon fight, die, and live again as the powers of necromancy deny them death for now. Unimpressed and unperturbed by this, the Elder raises his great staff to the heavens and brings it to the ground...and parts the red sea.

* * *

The sky was blue once more, although for a moment, and the landscape for _just_ a moment looked as though it could recover. The Demon fought, however, tainting the land once more while the Elder fought with his own power. A storm roiled and roared above, clouds twisting and churning into a maelstrom like that of an otherworldly place.

Lightning struck, thunder boomed! And cyclones did roar from the mouth of the Maelstrom only to join together in one huge torrent of roiling air. A roar emitted from the tornado itself and anyone who looked close enough could just barely see some kind of face show through the twister as it sucked up entire cities, sucking the hives from the surface and leaving a twisted landscape of bleeding flesh and soiled dirt where once upon a time may've been proud if awful cities turned into the worst possible dens of scum and villainy.

This was no maelstrom, no tornado, no storm magic! This thing was a summons, a being befriended by the Elder himself that came in his time of need.

So it did get it's fill of demon flesh, it dissipated from view.

And the Council reporters got it all on tape.

* * *

(Short as hell..but the next chapter, the Terrans pay for their crime against the demon lord they're attacking and must defend!)


	71. A doomed defense

"If you're going to be here you're going to be fucking useful!" Lukas, Sergeant of his unit, led a group of Turian volunteers (in truth, veterans of the Turian army) to the bank of gun turrets, dual-mounted .50 cal Ma Deuce machine guns, each of them fed by _huge_ crates of ammo below the guns. The Turians followed him close, already itching for an order "Your weapons are useless against the Batarians _and_ the demons, forget them! In this situation they're not worth the shit used to make 'em. These turrets are loaded with Silvercore bullets and have a cooling sheath around the barrel. They'll not overheat, they'll work through the worst, and all it takes is for you to aim and fire the damned things!"

The weapons were mounted on a heavy, cast iron swivel mount bolted to the floor of the iron walkway that extended from the huge wall by atleast 10 feet. The turrets were guarded by the reinforced quikrete wall erected by the American troopers and engineers that encircled their base. The weapons had a huge degree of motion allowing the Turians to aim up or down at a 60 degree angle and left or right at 120 degrees. The weapons were guarded by a huge ball of adamantium and enchanted glass that gave the Turians a way to see out and also a massive degree of protection.

"The weapons won't run out of ammo anytime soon; you're all equipped with close to eight-thousand silvercore bullets equating to four-thousand a gun. All you do, is spot the demons or Batarians or vampires or what have you and fire until it stops moving. If it moves again, shoot it again!" Lukas emphasized his point with motions of his hands, smacking his gloved hands together and pounding his fist into the armor plating "Guns are racked and ready to go. Melt those fucking things. Good hunting!" The instructions were simple and the Turians understood every word of it. They took to their stations after snapping off sharp salutes and soon they were melting the horde outside with glee.

"Something about these things is just intoxicating!" Shouts a Turian soldier who watches his targets fall like wheat to the scythe "Damn the Terrans know how to make some weapons!"

"Damn right they do! Keep firing!"

And so they did, firing and killing to their hearts to content. Not like there was a lack of targets.

* * *

Lukas walked down the metal stairs with speed, there were a thousand men working on welding and riveting together metal plates to replace parts of wall or parts of vehicle that were melted by demonic plasma.

The base was a mess, to be frank. While the ground had been purified enough to be grassland once again, the constant activity wore down the soil to nothing but grass and layers of metal layed down by the soldiers and engineers. Tracks of feet, human and otherwise, were all over the place erratically as were the tracks of vehicles. The walls surrounded the entire thing, each level had metal walkways reinforced and bolted into the wall directly. Each one bore guns, a 360 defensive grid against the 360 offensive horde. Vehicles were ragtag, pulled apart and put back together, vehicles too gone to be saved were scavenged for parts with no time for a proper burial.

Everyone was tired, it felt like they'd been here for an eternity when in reality it was a short time! Even Lukas was starting to get gray hairs; he's only in his late 20s for gods sake!

"Status!" Lukas barked, getting the attention of a team of Quarian engineers that looked back at the Sergeant and all stood at attention then one spoke.

"Sir!"

"At ease, status."

"Sir, we've just finished placing the rune enscribed armor onto one of the tanks. The Enchanters are still placing their runes on the munitions for the Wall Cannons and will try to do more to bolster the other vehicles with their enchanting. But no matter what we do, something keeps nullifying the armor! The demons are just too powerful."

"Then tell 'em to do it better!" Lukas growled "I don't have time to deal with a demon having fun with our tanks. Where's the wizard?" Wizard, the name for a powerful mage the equivalent of a teacher, where mages are students.

"Keeping up the ward, Sir! She said there's a Maleficarum attempting to pierce the ward!"

"Damn it! Fine, back to it!" The Quarians instantly went to their work and Lukas looked around the base, what remained of it. The men were tired, it was obvious. Kept up at night by the taint, only barely held back by the Wizard that was doing her best it seemed to hold the ward. The motor pool was one being steadily depleted. Everytime a unit of tanks was sent out, they were destroyed. Halftracks, destroyed. Mechs! Destroyed! To say nothing of the cost of men suffered because of this gods forsaken world.

"Maleficarum! Inbound!"

 _'This world can officially **BITE MY ASS!'**_

Lukas rushed upto the second level of the four level base, where the machine guns were held (cannons on the first floor) and saw it.

A form, it would be an insult to call it human but that's what it tried to imitate it seemed. A mish-mash, bulbous, hellspawn mockery of the Human and Batarian forms both. It had eyes, many eyes, all over what could be called a head Lukas supposed. In reality, it looked like some lotus seed with a thousand closely packed eyes of a thousand colors (some that realistically Lukas couldn't see, but could sense something was _wrong_ with the color) that extended down a body of quivering muscle and fat. The arms were like buildings and even seem to have been _made of them_. This confused Lukas for a moment until he thought. The cities weren't _hives_ , they were like fetuses!

The huge hearts could be _heard_ , not seen but _heard_ , pumping in the things chest that extended weirdly, bulging in one area and caved in in the other as though the creature was incomplete. It was misshapen, legs disjointed and bleeding ending in cloved hooves and tumorous appendages made of a million little hands.

Speaking of hands, where _should've_ been hands simply ended in mouth-like claws ( _or claw like mouths_ ) that were like buzzsaws ending in jagged teeth, ever dragging into the endless hole of its arm. A cloud of miasma followed the Maleficarum, as did a million flies like corpses with wings that seemed to eat away at the things back. A portal could be felt and barely seen coming from the thing. Its skin was a sickly, rotting mass of flesh with places of chitin growing over it in random places. It'd been attacked before. And had slain those who attacked it.

It wasn't _one_ being, it was a billion others.

A conduit of the Other Side.

Lukas tried to put up a tough face, but all he wanted was to go back to Shanxi. He wanted to go to Shanxi, see Theadra and his friends, see his family, just..go home. Curl up and die.

Evidently, others felt the same.

"We're fucked," cried a man upon seeing the creature incoming.

"We're fucked," repeated Lukas, knowing that it was true. They indeed _were_ fucked.

But what were they going to do? Give up and die?

Terrans don't do that.

"Stand! Stand and fight!" Lukas growled grabbing the man and hefting him onto his feet "We'll likely die here, yeah, but we're _**Terrans!**_ We don't just wither and die. We're brought into this world kicking and screaming and by the GODS we're gonna go out like that! That fucking thing is the culmination of a billion souls, slaver and otherwise, and it's gonna do its best to kill us! We're here to _kill_ things like that! Find the shattered remains of your testicles, pick up your rifle, and shoot that fucking thing! Cannons! Fire! Guns guns guns!"

" ** _GUNS_** ** _GUNS GUNS!_** " the men repeated and indeed did the base light up.

Lukas knew it, they were likely to die here.

But he'd be _damned_ if that thing took him without a fight!


	72. Exterminatus

"Come on! Come on, men!" Lukas roared as he mounted onto one of the machine guns on the second level. The base lit up, a veritable miniature sun firing silvercore projectiles as all gunners set to annihilating what managed to get close. The cannons, that could see the Maleficarum, set to their duty firing multiple shells of varying sizes from the varying guns (Some resembled Bofors AA guns, others field cannons, and others were dual-barreled artillery cannons, anything that could fit) into the Maleficarum. Silvercore, the projectile of choice, tore into the demon but seemed to have little effect.

"Keep firing! Don't let up! Make every shot count!" Lukas ordered and continued on firing as well. And so everyone did, firing as much and as often as they could. Machine guns alternated between holding off the spawn, others focused on the Maleficarum which seemed unimpressed despite the obvious damage.

"Fire! Fire! **_FIRE!_** "

Closer, closer, closer, the Maleficarum never stopped.

"In the name of GOD! Die!" Lukas roared, teeth barred as his ears rang and rang from the constant boom. His chest thumped with the force of the many .50 cals and artillery pieces firing, his body vibrated and he felt numb in his feet. Even still, he held white knuckled onto the trigger and handle as the rest roared their own assurances, curses, and general insults.

Closer..

Closer...

Closer...

 ** _Wham._**

It hit the wall with a clawed stump, sending the machine gunners, and wizard from on high, falling to the bottom floor. The Wizard survived on account of her being a _wizard_ , and the rest of the men that fell from the second floor survived as the fall wasn't high. Everyone else, however, fell mangled.

The Ward had fallen, and so from on high Vampires swarmed the base and took victims Human, Quarian, Turian and everything in between with them into the sky.

Lukas felt a tear escape him.

This is where he dies?

* * *

" _No!"_ A voice booms from within his head and from all over. Next to Lukas appirates a being, a man, a fine man with a great beard and long hair. His head is scarred, as though cut and marred by a crown of pain, and yet he radiated an aura of calm, of warmth, and of security. The man hoists Lukas up, whom feels little and has little strength left in his body, and yet this man supports him on his shoulder.

"You will not die here." The ward- no, a more powerful shield is erected over the base of shining gold. The maleficarum and a thousand vampires, spawn, and the other unclean wretches that surround the base. With a wave of the hand, the walls fall and the weapons disintegrate. From on high comes a host of what appear to be white-winged men in plate armor, forming a wall of angellic flesh and plate around the fallen and dying of the base.

The Maleficarum screeches an awful sound, flesh bubbling as pure sunlight burns away the taint of the land. "This land is beyond saving, but you are not!" The man places his hand upon Lukas' chest causing a wave of stamina to overtake Lukas who gasps, feeling younger than he has in what felt like an eternity.

"Archangel," The man commands "Slay the beast." So they do, the Archangels seemingly swim through the air (or so it appeared, with how smooth they glided through the air) and into the beast creating gaping, never healing wounds in the beast and even when the Archangels couldn't avoid its massive claws and were absorbed by the buzzsaw-like claws into the fist, they never stopped in their mission to fell the beast.

Lukas watched amazed, shocked by the display, and despite the strength that flooded him, he felt faint.

"Sleep, awaken when strong again."

So he did.

* * *

The demons intensified. Even the Blackwatch couldn't get any deeper to the core, to the home of the Altus Inferna, despite the Inquisitor's presence and the Elder's! They just couldn't get in.

They tried, they damn well tried!

Armies of power armored men charged the demonic lines, swords of Silversteel and armor of Adamantium met waves of bone, chitin, flesh and magic and the insuing brawl was one for the ages. Silvercore bullets impacted all around them from weapons of varying size and calibre, ranging from light .308 to heavy 40mm chainguns and even larger while banner carriers led the charge, firing huge weapons held in one fist and stabbing the demons with the spike of their banner poles.

"Fell the beasts!" Roared a particularly decorated woman in power armor, more like a miniature mechanized walker, as she swung a huge adamantium hammer around clearing swathes of demons.

Blood and bile covered her armor and the decorative clothe that hung from her waist and power armored head, like an ancient knight or warrior of fantasy. A burning ball of fire magic boils in her hand and with a roar, she raises her fist and then brings it down to the ground!

The magic spills into the land, sending quakes of flaming fissures into the ground and erupting into hundred foot tall flame walls, the Blackwatch charging right through and continuing the onslaught while she swings the hammer around her head one handed.

Even still, they just couldn't get through.

There was no way through.

There are too many.

* * *

Victims of the demon were in an eternal hell, they could feel their very souls being eaten slowly as food and power for the demon that had taken them. Terror, pure, unadulterated terror was their reality now. They replayed their worst fears in...they couldn't call it their heads anymore, no. They were joined to a webbing that stretches all around the den of the demon that had enslaved them. A fleshy mass of a million minds feeding the worst possible creature they could've imagined.

It only made it worse..that they summoned it.

What was left of the Batarian nobility, the higher ups, the slavers and the lords were now the food source of the creature they prayed would give them power.

It did. But..not as they wanted.

The demon was happy. Yes, happy, with its situation. It had dealt with Terrans before, hell it was once a teacher to the little monkeys. But, being summoned by the naiive Batarians in return for power? When it could get free life force? Oh, that was too nice a deal.

It knew what the Terrans would do.

And it accepted it with a smile, as it tortured its disgusting garden of the joined Batarian nobility once again erupting an orchestra of screaming and crying.

"Scream for me."

* * *

The Terrans gave up. They just gave up. They pulled all that they could from the planet, military and civilian, and left the planet of Khar'Shan. Irreversabley tainted, the Blackwatch and the Terran Navy did what it only could now.

"Let this day forever be cursed, for we prepare to cleanse from the face of existance the very crust of this once homeworld. Let this day be mourned for millenia on until such a time that our bones be dust and our deeds be forgiven. Until then, we sentence Khar'Shan to the death of eternity and cleanse it's crust of the filth that has embedded itself. May the Gods have mercy on us and on all those we've saved. As Inquisitor of the Blackwatch...I do commence Exterminatus."

The Council news cast recorded the happenings, as did millions of others, with tearful faces and wounded hearts.

Lukas watched the extermination of Khar'Shan with bittersweet feeling. He was happy to be gone..but he'd lost so many there.

The Navy bombarded Khar'Shan with everything it had. The ships of all the navies joining together in a huge counter-rotational circle and slowly drifted against the spin of the world they were bombarding.

Silvercore munitions had been made special for this.

Khar'Shan cracked, tore, and some would say screamed as the fell spirit of Khar'Shan cried out for cleansing and slowly died out with every huge shell fired.

The extermination of Khar'Shan took four hours to destroy.

And the entire thing was recorded..and broadcast.


	73. Codex: Batarian War Bestiary

Courtesy of the men and women of the African Union, a document was recovered from Batarian High Command (What remained of it, anyway) that details a number of things that even the Terrans hadn't discovered. Detailed below is the creatures that appeared on Khar'Shan (including records from Blackwatch Archives to supplement and answer questions asked in the documents).

* * *

Spawnling: Spawnlings, as we've come to call them, are husks, the remains of what once were 'people' if you can call a slave that. They've had their minds eaten by the Demon Lord and replaced with feral instinct capable only of listening to Him. Their bodies have twisted, changed, and been moulded by His power. Greyish of color, with fingers ending in claws, their limbs have extended and become taut powered by wirey muscle that lends them great strength if a lithe frame. Their faces have become long and jaws hang constantly dribbling acidic saliva from a barbed tongue surrounded by many rows of teeth. (Blackwatch: For Terran imagining, think of a lamprey.) These spawnlings are the remains of our slaves, used to power the Demon Lord and in return are used as cannon fodder.

* * *

Vampires: Vampires, as human slaves have called them (before becoming vampires themselves) are created by constant demonic tampering with the individuals mind and soul while they're fed fetid, tainted blood by a servant of the Demon Lord. This tainted blood, that of their own species mixed with Ichor (BW: Demon blood) which quickly causes mutations. The mutation into Vampire depends on the individual. Some become drones, mindless beasts barely worth the effort. Others become Hunters, vicious winged beasts with razor sharp teeth, sharp talons, and leathery skin. Their claws are as sharp as their senses and they're smart, as could be seen by them luring Terran patrols into ambushes using mimiced screams of their own people.

Other Vampires, even still, if they're male, grow _huge!_ Not only this, but their immense strength is something that impressed even the Demon Lord. Multiple of these giants (BW: Kings. Vampire Kings.) seem to get along well enough, but when we created an even larger female, the strongest of the lot suddenly attacked! It castrated the other males, who in pain relegated themselves to the female and male's defense.

The mating ceremony after is..not something I'd like to document. (BW: They created a queen created a nest.)

The Vampires were fed a steady supply of slave and captive, some of the feedstock being turned into zombie-like creatures that started to eat themselves and regenerate before our very eyes. (BW: Ghouls.) Incredible!

* * *

Maleficarum: This is what a captured Terran called the various demons that wander what was once our home, now our Lord's playground. Maleficarum, demons that aren't old enough to have gained a proper form, are random in every shape and form of the word. Some make sense, others are blobs of telekinetic power, and others still aren't even corporeal. They're frightening, but they seem to ignore us. For now.

Altus Maleficarum: These are the creatures grown from our once cities, hives of corpses and interwoven suffering of a million souls weaved into one, disgusting being. There are few, and the cyclones summoned by a Terran Summoner destroyed one of the gestating Maleficarum.

But one lived. It's on the way to a Terran Base now.

The Altus Maleficarum are immensely dangerous, from all we've hypothesized and seen from lesser demons, if only for their size alone. Their very being is a conduit, a portal, from the Demon Lord's realm to ours.

* * *

Ticks: These creatures are minor demons crafted by the Lord Himself. They're like bulbous ticks, hence their name, that are like control chips, implanted in the skulls of the unfaithful that quickly grow outward. The process is..horrific.

Ticks scrape at the interior of the skull, trying to scrape outward, and the sound inside their own heads creates a maddening sound that breaks down the unfaithful's morale. As they grow, they split the skin and latch claw onto the scalp, pulling their growing bodies outward and pulling back on the flesh for a better hold increasing the pain suffered.

Once grown outward, with the face pulled taut, the tick begins injecting ichor into the skull cavity of the victim melting the brain's greater reasoning and replacing it only with thoughts of loyalty. The infected suffer flashes, like memories past, that drive them on to do the Lord's bidding.

To be infected is an awful fate.

I..I feel the scratching. I can hear it.

* * *

BW: The codex ends after that point, devolving into scrabbles and chicken scratch.


	74. Homecoming

The trip back to Terran space was a..rather silent one, if one was to be honest. Few spoke and when they did, it was in curt sentences followed by nondescript grunts of either affirmative or negative. Soldiers slept, finally they could sleep, and while the cots weren't wonderfully comfy in comparison to home they were better than what they had on Khar'Shan (Metal floors with their armor as a pillow, usually) and so they took advantage of it.

And sleep was wonderful.

But there was an almost galaxy-wide feeling of..something. It was strange. It had taken time for the aliens to accept it but..it happened.

Khar'Shan was gone and the Terrans destroyed it.

The entirety of the Exterminatus operation was broadcast. The galaxy stood still for those hours that the operation was going on. Everyone with a holoviewer could see it and the Terrans were no different.

* * *

 _The Earth stood still, as did Shanxi, Amazonia, Sparti, and others, as those with T.V.s or those in the forum of the many cities could see in wide screen: The destruction of Khar'Shan. There were cheers, proud declarings by so many, but others were shocked stupid. Had the war truly gone so bad? So bad that the combined power of the Alliance's fleets had to_ Annihilate _an entire planet?_

 _It must've, no one would do so lightly. Many, despite the Batarians being enemies, mourned the loss of Khar'Shan. Not for the Batarians, necessarily, but for the loss of the planet-spirit itself._

 _Factories had stalled when news came in that the war was won, but then froze when it was learned_ how _._

 _Theadra and many others watched the end of Khar'Shan on T.V. and did so in silence, what could they say?_

 _Theadra felt no sorrow; she could only hope that the Alliance managed to get the slaves out of there. What they could anyway._

 _She hoped the men were okay._

 _She hoped Lukas would come home safe; she didn't want to lose another friend._

* * *

The Fleet wasn't done just with Khar'Shan, however. No, they stopped at all their colonies before going home and in a vow to never be found wanting again they set up incredible defensive bases. Walls of Quikrete sheathed in Adamantium, with machine guns and cannons and flakguns at the ready should anything attack. The local PDF were happy with it; military men and women assigned to the colonies and territories thereon to defend against attackers. Now they had honest to the Gods bases to assist with it.

With defenses set up even stricter, the fleet continued home.

Homeward bound, they wanted to see what they left behind for what felt like an eternity. There and back again, however, the time the war took wasn't nary but a few months in reality. Taking into account the combined time for ducking in and out of FTL, the time it took to create the armory, and the stops at Batarian colonies, it wasn't much for the Terrans let alone any military campaign.

They just wanted home again.

* * *

So they did get home, the varying fleets entering drydock and the soldiers went either to Earth or the varying colonies to sleep, find their families, and enjoy what their people would give them for their service. What they'd earned.

Lukas and innumerable others poured into the Shanxi dock and smiled when the lot of them were met with hollering families and friends awaiting their return. People with signs, paper and otherwise, called for their relatives to find them. The sound was incredible, people crying and laughing, yelling with glee and cheer as they embraced eachother tight, happy that they came home once more.

Lukas' family was on Earth, he'd find them when he went there back to the States, but he had a friend on Shanxi he wanted to find first.

Finding a Turian in a mass of Humans and Mechanoids should be an easy thing, all things considered, although even the Mechanoids came in varied forms (Some were more human, others were flatout robotic or non-human looking) so if Theadra were a Mechanoid _that_ would be a hell of a thing.

Theadra seemed to have joined the crowd when it came to the signage, because he spotted her there. Her sandy brown skin and greyish-white exoskeleton was covered by a set of denim overalls over a white shirt, with shoes that seemed to be tailored to her feet and were the kind used in factories. Had she been working there? Lukas wondered, but smiled, and approached her.

She saw him, scanning the crowd it was difficult to pick out _one_ man in a sea of olive drab bedecked men, but considering he was walking right at her and she could recognize his face (if with some gray hairs, the poor man) she knew it was Lukas that was in her sights.

"Lukas! You're back!" She grinned and the two met with a tight hug, Lukas was thicker because of his armor and thus it was difficult for Theadra to get her arms around him but she made it work. "Spirits, we all heard what happened on Khar'Shan."

"You've no true idea," Lukas chuckles darkly and breaks from the hug after a moment and leans back to look Theadra in the face. His smile grew, because it finally hit him: He's back in Terran space, even though the face isn't what would typically be seen, it was one that was familiar to him. "But God damn it feels good to be back home. So what's with the clothes? Were you working the factory?" Theadra's nod makes Lukas raise both brows.

"Yes, when you left I knew I didn't want to go back into the military despite yours being different from the Hierarchy's. I just couldn't do that. But I wanted to contribute somehow, so I joined up with the local factory and was making tanks!" Theadra's excitement made Lukas grin "We made an incredible amount of the things, too, I couldn't believe how fast they rolled off the line but it worked. I got money, too, for my time at the factory. I'm still working there, although now with the war over we're rolling off the last tanks from the line and moving back to trucks."

"Damn well done on you, then! Already like a true Terran."

"Damn right I am! Was never a good Turian, but I hope to be a good Terran." She grins and holding Lukas' shoulders, looking his armored form up and down she nods "You seem to have all your parts about you atleast, all your limbs."

"Only barely," Lukas smiles softly "I need a drink..and sleep.."

"Come on, then, let's see if we can't get you some food."

"Lord I do need some!"


	75. Codex: Terran Technomagic

Magic has been apart of the Terrans since before they can remember. In the ancient days when witch-doctors served the still young Humans drinks of eyeballs, blood, and scattered herbs, these fledgling Alchemists while serving _disgusting_ drinks _did_ serve helpful mixes. Wether they cause hallucination, or their poultices would heal wounds, or they could create links between man and beast, these Alchemists were at the forefront of the oldest Arcane school known to Humanity.

Arising from this awakened school came later the Mages, the wonder-men and Psychic Chieftains, that could interrogate enemy and subordinate alike with their mind and call down the wrath of the ancient Gods upon those that dared to oppose them! But even these chiefs couldn't stand up against the sheer amount of non-magical humans that feared them. Most of these mages were slain, out of fear or anger, and while for a short time Humanity dared to stray away from the magic that bent the Universe's energies into their own uses and thus began to learn how to create more on their own, mages eventually rose again albeit under a leash of fear on both sides of the argument.

Rather than becoming the lords and chieftains of the ancient eras, they became like the medicine men and witch doctors, these mages would serve their people in different ways, but rarely ever became leaders of their own. Healers, druids, battlemages, and the occasional arcane engineer, but for the most part: A way to see into the other realms.

These ancient mages could commune with the dead, fledgling Necromancers and Necrourgists, and communicate with the demons and spirits of the natural world. In exchange for a price; sacrifice, knowledge, a conversation, or a game of knucklebones, they would lend their knowledge to these ancient mages that began to grow. With them, grew their societies.

Ancestors of Mechanoids, Golems, were created by the ancient humans as guardians or workforces, although the latter rarely worked well. Storm mages could predict storms, rains, and lightly edge them along for a more bountiful harvest, Earth mages with their innate connection to the land and limited power over the earth could mould the land into a more defensible home, Pyromancers could stave off the cold of the night (And helped to keep the fires going, although they too tried to learn as much as possible how to create fire by hand), and other schools could learn how to bend their abilities with their own learning and the assistance of the spirits.

Ever knowing of the arcane, and knowing something must be beyond, the Terrans struck out. Tales and myths of creatures seperate from them rose, although most modern Terrans wonder if they were truly myth and not historical recount, and evermore did they enter these strange realms and thus the myths grew ever stronger.

Humans, ever cautious of mages for fear of a Magocracy, continued to learn how to work with their hands and how to use their minds rather than rely strictly on magic.

Although, they never did stop using and learning. But of course, everyone makes mistakes.

Demons are brutally honest creatures. If you make a deal with them, they'll do everything in their power to do so. But _you_ have to do the same for them. If they want something, get it, even if it's ridiculous. Do it. They're not _evil_ , but they make no qualms about skinning your feet and walking you on sand and needles if you try to get one over them.

Humans, by nature, have second thoughts especially when doing a deal. Naturally, this led to demonic incursion. Bands of Mages and Warriors came together to stop these demons, mixing martial prowess with arcane knowledge and found success in these endeavours. Granted, fighting demons is no easy matter, but these men and women persevered in the face of the monsters and began to catalogue them in their various areas of operation. Over time, these places, these people, these guilds, came together and took the collective name of Blackwatch. To stand vigilant against the black bowels of The Other Side and protect both their realm, and others, from eachother.

When Technology began it's rise, in the far back days of the ancient Sumerians, Babylonians, Assyrians, and other civilizations (With Greeks and Romans following), magic took an interest to both mages and engineers, mechanics, and scientists that wanted to see how to marry the two schools. The mundane and Arcane.

However, even these powerful ancient civilizations that built the future of their successors, could not sustain both sides of the scales. Civilizations fell, wether to man's folly or to Demons, beings of the other realms, or by sheer unluck they fell but were forever felt.

Technology, however, forever sustained and kept. In the days of the Renaissance, a far refined version of ancient Golems coming to be knows as 'Mechanical Men" and later 'Mechanoids' was created by artists, mages, and scientists. Limbs of accurate representation to humans, height normal for the time, were imbued with energy even these masters did not fully realize. Further, they were imbued with what was called a 'heart stone' that was enchanted heavily. While the enchantments cost quite alot, they were worth it. The limbs were constructed of wood and lashed with brass joints and caps, like a giant puppet rather than any true machine.

The Mechanical Man moved!

Without voice nor facial emotion, however, the Mechanical Man could not fully communicate, yet it could understand the masters. "Come to me," ordered one, when he stood at the other end of the room.

The Mechanical Man, like a newborn fawn, struggled to find it's legs. But the limbs, moving on pullies and finely tuned metal string and cog, along with the Mechanical Man's animus (Spirit energy, essentially) allowed the being to move. With some trying, it eventually found it's legs and walked to it's master.

The masters were ecstatic!

However, showing the mechanical being to others, they were driven from their town and the being was burnt as the being caused terror in the simple folk.

For a time, Mechanical Men were forgotten.

However, this time was short and the mechanical men returned in the realms of the nobility. Created with rich woods, brass machinery and for the especially rich: Porcelain.

These beings were carved wonderfully, with moving mouths and eyes, with more fine-tuned limb movement, and were usually created as butlers or other professions.

These creatures, the Mechanical Men now called Mechanoids, created a fire in the nobilities of Humanity.

The peasant-folk, seeing these creatures, became amazed by them seeing now that it was the _nobility_ that had them. They wanted to see more!

Blacksmiths and artists began creating these giant marionette-esque beings (Giant in comparison, anyway, as they were only as tall as the average men for the time) but with no way to animate them, they were almost useless.

When Enchanters and Mages wanted to create heart stones to animate the beings, they began to read as much as they could afford or steal or barter. Magic, as a consequence, got it's own Renaissance and so these Mechanoids, with effort became even more prominent.

Of course, humanity treated these beings as simply machines: Not sentient (calling them 'not alive' would be technically incorrect) and with no self-need, began to serve their Human masters (those that could afford them, of course) with gusto. Little did the humans know, their creations were _very_ alive and aware, but what could they say?

Although, their owners couldn't help but feel that their creations were staring at them..or that they could just feel the Mechanoids as they do other humans.

* * *

The Terrans, during the Industrial Revolution, began to experiment more finely with mixing Magic, Alchemy and mundane craft together. It was from these many experiments that metals such as Orichalcum, a copper material saturated with alchemical ingredients (usually condensed Storm magics, while it doesn't have a name some have tried with names like 'Stormium' or 'Raidenium' the latter of which is what the Japanese call Orichalcum when speaking with English-speaking people. Others, however, just call it 'Shock jelly' for its viscous, glue-like nature that carries a charge strong enough to kill a full grown man.)

Orichalcum is created when Copper is still hot from forging and is cooled in a vat of shock jelly, which imbues the metal with its magic. Once pulled from these vats, the new metal, Orichalcum, turns from the normal copper color to a sickly green and then changes as the magic further 'infects' the metal. Finally, when the magic is imbued, the metal takes on a lustrous red-gold color and is ready for further forging and manufacturing.

Orichalcum, when Electricity became especially popular, was the go to for wiring. However, Orichalcum's high price (for the Mage that actually creates the jelly and for the copper) made it so only the rich could have Orichalcum wiring.

Another, similar, material to Shock Jelly is Aerium which is created by Aeromancers in a similar way to Geomancers, Pyromancers and Tempestakinetics (Storm mages): The Mage or Wizard focuses their magic into their hands and holds them together, as though they're going to charge and release with their hands. But they don't, they hold it there.

It's difficult to explain _exactly_ , but what some Mages have said happens is: The magic runs into itself and condenses, once from a airy and free material to more like jelly. After this, the jelly-like magic is cast down into a vat where it stays and collects. This is repeated as much as the Mage is able.

Aerium is an incredibly light material, as should be obvious, and while it was difficult to find a _use_ for it, once it was discovered that passing an electrical charge through the material (held in a container) would make the container float ( _Flung_ is more like it, when first discovered. The Iron case that was ested with it was found some four miles away, buried five feet into the ground.) there were _many_ experiments done with Aerium.

Aerium made heavy loads lighter, but actually attaching a generator (then with rubber tubes and copper/orichalcum wiring inside) and connector to the damned thing limited it's use. Airships, however, Airships found _amazing_ use in the stuff. It effectively cut out the need for Helium once Aerium was developed to an adequate state. While the electrical charge was difficult, with the more expensive Airships being developed with Orichalcum wiring and many attempted generators created including shock jelly turbines, the pay off was worth it because it allows Airships to be more useful and cut off some of the meat (the lack of a need for helium or hydrogen balloons made them more comfortable and easier to store).

Aerium was also used to make light but durable materials. The most popular was once called 'Aerosteel' and after the Lord of the Rings was released, renamed to Mithril (Although some industries will still call it Aerosteel). Aerosteel was used in light armors, such as chainmail, because it was so durable. It could be worn like a shirt with no fatigue on the user, so it was easy to forget it was there, but any blunt blow directed at the body parts with the stuff on would suffer little damage. While it could be used in full plate as well, it was less useful.

Aerosteel, made of Aluminum mixed with Aerium, is featherweight and durable. This makes it useful for a host of different applications and in the modern day is not just used for armor, but for an example is also used in the automotive industry. Aerosteel is usually made for bumpers (when Iron or steel isn't used) or other areas of the car, but most Terrans go for fullbore steel or iron as a rule.

Another material was made from the metal Titanium with condensed Geogel, the product of Earth magic being condensed to a jelly form. Titanium, made with the same process as Orichalcum just with different substance, became a metal named Adamantium. Adamantium is harder than diamond, is resistant if not _proof_ against corrosion, and is resistant to heat, fatigue, and cracking. Adamantium is relatively easy to forge, once actually made, and Adamantium became a popular metal used in small quantities for applications such as rivets and other structural parts.

In WW1, Orichalcum, Aerosteel and Adamantium were used in the creation of the first Tanks. Adamantium was used to create the rivets that would hold together the tank armor (usually it was the steel plates that suffered catastrophic damage, rather than the rivets themselves) and in some cases; Adamantium was used as the armor itself.

These tanks are still in use (And the British Empire never did abandon the Mark series of tanks; they just improved on them.)

WW2 was when magic and industrialization truly came together, with Adamantium armor plating and rivets, Aerosteel body armor, and Orichalcum circuitry used in the vacuum tubes. The Vacuum tubes were used in computers, such as the UNIVAC, which while large were smaller than they could've been because of the efficiency of the Orichalcum wiring inside.

Computers were used in some of the new vehicles deployed by the Nazi Reich, the Mechanized Walkers, developed by Anton Ihmaff and his team. When they were deployed against the Allies, they were a terror. Armed with cannons and machine guns, they waded through a sea of steel, adamantium, and blood. Bolstered by Thule magics, the war seemed a foregone conclusion for the Reich.

It would've been, had the man that made it possible not defected with his 'son', created in a vat, Andre Ihmaff. Anton, Andre, and a horde of German scientists ran to the west.

Secrets of the walkers, and experimental power armor, and a number of other projects that were stolen by the team, were the Allies and quickly they began to create their own.

Andre, however, warned that the Nazis were unearthing something awful. Something wrong.

Placed with a unit of commandos with Blackwatch assistance, Andre and the famous Captain Edward Bishop, Takeo Teramoto, Mary Eddard, Ulysses, and Mercy the Sherman, were sent to Europe to cause all kinds of hell for the Nazi Wizards.

 _What_ exactly they discovered was not revealed to the public, but whatever the Nazis had done was enough to stall out a possible cold war between the ever-growing American industry and the steamrolling Soviet wave of steel and blood. The end of the war came about when the last of Nazi High Command had been slaughtered and whatever Captain Bishop's squad did was the shattering of the Veil (thrown over the eyes of humanity as they strayed _too_ far from one to another) and the beginning of the war that united Humanity together.

The Omen War.

The Omen were a horde of undead monsters and demons from The Other Side that ravaged what remained of humanity after such a terrible war. The Omen were comprised of corpses twisted with magic and infused with scrap metal that the demons invading had fused to them. Skeletons and rotting corpses of hateful magic and a sheer desire to end everything that wasn't them. The Omen War lasted 20 years, from the 1940s to the 1960s. By the end of the War, Humanity and their Mechanoid friends, felt as though they were about to go extinct. When finally The Omen were defeated, fallen corpses and slain relatives and banished demons, the landscape was ravaged.

Humanity, in a surprising global effort, came together to _fix_ the damage that The Omen caused. Nothing like a near extinction to make them come together.

The Terran Technomagical economy grew during this regrowth, technology advanced but along a different vein than others in the galaxy had. The Terrans went from nothing to large, the vehicles were large mostly out of necessity; they had to be large in order to haul alot and powerful to pull back the skin of the wreckage. With that, they also began to try and find ways to make their engines cleaner. They worried about the pollution, a deathly fear that they may lose their home.

With magic, with intelligence, with sheer hard work, the Terrans grew their magic and their industry while growing their home. Great walkers with huge grasping claw-like hands pulled away felled trees, powered by great radial diesel engines with orichalcum wiring and computers inside, those working in dangerous areas with the skin of Adamantium, any threat that came their way was shrugged off by the powerful armor. Airships ferried supplies to places completely cut off by the war, excavation efforts on either side of the blockage grinding towards eachother until finally meeting.

Submarines with Adamantium skin and Mithril bones and Orichalcum veins dove deep, deep underwater to find supplies and continue research into their home.

Iron, steel, leather and strength forged the future for the Terrans and in return they earned an almost religious affinity and love for the materials.

Iron is honest, blunt, and fears no insult.

Steel is strong, nimble, a shield against danger.

Leather is life, ever slowly degrading and rotting until it finally fades but a strong and malleable material.

This is why so many Terrans use the materials: Because of their love for them.

In the modern day, Alchemists are common and mages aren't as feared as once long ago and new magics are being studied in grand Universities, while the non-magical Terrans are making _damn_ sure they know how to work with their hands and how to repair what's broken. It was that attitude and knowledge that fixed the world before, it's that attitude and knowledge that'll make sure the Terrans 'know how to fish'.

Terran magic and technology is a mix and blend of one another, their items are like an artform in and of itself because so much of it is handmade. Little imperfections, little fuck ups here and there, rather than the simple uniformity of all-factoried material. The Terrans _love_ their factories, but there's no shortage of carpenters, blacksmiths, and other professions. Each of these items, made with sheer effort and will, are warm to the touch even after long since been off of the forge or lathe.

This is how Terrans make the distinction between a 'cold' item and a 'warm' item. The cold items have no name, have no care, no blood nor sweat nor tears in them with hands on effort and the calculating gaze of its maker. It's devoid of soul, cold.

Warm items are, as stated above, warm to the touch (Some would say hot) even in the most frigid of all places. During the forging process, or the carving or pulling or twisting, the one creating them puts effort, will, and energy into it. As well as this, these items are usually given a name.

They're warm, full of soul, and impart heat to those that feel them.

Some items are more 'alive' than others. A simple blade, for example, may have a soul of it's own and indeed some may say intelligence, but a vehicle such as a truck is moreso because of all it's parts, all the effort put into those parts, and the energy it expends.

Terrans _love_ their vehicles, with biogas so cheap and plentiful they have plenty of time to drive around. Many, many Terrans will put plenty of effort into their vehicles. Spend money, time, and care for the thing and many will give them a name, call them 'he' or 'she'.

After this is done, the car is to the Terrans 'born' in a sense. It's as much of them as they are of it, which is why so many will mourn the loss of their cars wether due to crash, complete failure of the thing, and should both driver and car die together, they'll both be buried.

The Terrans bury their vehicles for a maximum of a week and a minimum of three days (depends on the place) and will exhume it for scrap later on, when the spirit of the car has passed on to be with their master.

Magic plays as much a role in those, however, as anything. Orichalcum wiring, adamantium internals, mithril body, magical forging or even alchemical tampering. The extent depends on the one doing it, but magic is often employed with Terran vehicles. The very creation of the things is, to many terrans even if only subconsciously, magical.

Magic is also the driving force of the Mechanoids, as it allows them to have the synthetic skin, nerves, and in some cases even extremities such as eyes or other bits to say nothing of what drives their computers. Orichalcum wiring is built into most Mechanoids in the modern day, with some being only able to have copper until they can afford the Orichalcum.

In all, the Terrans and Magic are inseperable.

* * *

(FINGERS)


	76. Codex: Mages, Wizards and Schools oh my!

Terrans seperate magic users into a few classes:

A Mage, no matter how old, is a student, not yet a Wizard (explained below) but the rank of Mage can denote a certain rank of Mage.

The different ranks of Mage are:

Novice: A basic mage that is still learning the basics and is usually under the tutelage of a Master level Mage or a Wizard. Novices aren't much a danger, but can be due to their lack of control and knowledge. Thusly, Novices are typically taught in warded parts of a University.

Apprentice: An Apprentice Mage has learned the basics of controlling his/her magic and knows basic level spells of the class he/she belongs to (Cryomancy, Pyromancy, Geomancy, Tempestakinetics, Healing, etc.) and is ready to learn more advanced spells. Apprentices may also come under the direct tutelage of a Wizard or Master, which can be both majorly advantageous to the apprentice but can also be stressful as the Master or Wizard is likely to be _more_ demanding than school usually is.

Adept: An Adept Mage has earned their place in the minor faculty of the School they belong to, becoming more trusted by the teachers and having learned higher level spells are now able to take on dangerous missions for the school, designed as a test. On Terra, there are weak points in the Aether that act as portals to other realms. These places are cordoned off by the Blackwatch, anyone coming close blacks out and awakens back in civilization wondering what happened and check if they still have a kidney (they do.) An Adept is sent to these places, with permission of the Wizard and the Blackwatch, and under Blackwatch escort are allowed to take care of a problem on the other side. Coming back victorious will earn teaching in the higher steps of the ranks of Mages.

Expert: Expert Mages are just under Masters, but steps under Wizards. Expert Mages are wise, experts of their field (hence the name) and have experience both on Terra and in other worlds. Diplomatic, smart, wise, and ever learning, Expert Mages are a terrible foe to face in the field and are known to carry with them enchanted items such as bags of holding or potions and trick bombs, incase of trouble or adventure. Expert Mages will typically lead troupes of lower rank Mages to areas of trouble and will lead them in an endeavour to make sure extra-dimensional denizens do not attempt to infiltrate and failing that, putting down these intruders.

Masters: Mythic to many Terrans, but there none the less, are the Master Mages. Masters are older than most may think, some may not even be alive, but they exist none the less. Masters have scribed spells, written grimoires lost to the ages, and have seen more in their life times than most will in a hundred of their own. Magic, as easy as breathing, is theirs to control and they do so with terrifying ease.

Archmages: Archmages run schools and universities, the most wise of their peers in said school or university and the most experienced. Archmages write the legislation of the school or university, writing the rules that affect the entirety of the place while their lower level peers and faculty write rules specific to their own class. Archmages are the stuff of legend and often appear in fantasy novels and games created by the Terrans.

* * *

Wizards are those Mages who have done something of note to be arisen farther than even Archmages. In terms of schooling, Wizards are the 'Superintendent' to the Archmages 'Principal' overseeing entire districts (Sometimes an entire _Country's_ magic universities etc. although this is usually done in small countries) of Magical institutions. Wizards are immensely powerful magic users and aren't typically found wandering Terra herself. Rather, they act as diplomats between worlds and work in conjunction with the Blackwatch to protect Terra from others and the others from Terra.

Archwizards are even higher than these, typically the foremost expert in their field when compared to others. They also will usually oversee the specific school that they belong to (I.E. Cryomancy, Pyromancy, etc.) and work with other Wizards and Mages to further their school and learn more.

* * *

Witches are non-school taught mages/wizards. While typically thought to be female, Witch applies to both men and women. Most Witches are Alchemists ontop of mages, but not all Alchemists are Witches. While held with fear by many, Witches typically are like the village apothecary and simply decide to practice on their own, without worry of the institutions. There's no law against them, so they thrive.

* * *

Druids are, like witches, magic users whom belong to no official school although they're usually found in Europe (specifically Ireland/Scotland).

* * *

Alchemists use modern Chemistry, magic, and folklore information about the natural world to create potions, poisons, and other substances typically imbibed through drinking. Granted, they can make their craft in any form they damn well choose if they're experienced, but still. Alchemists typically act as apothecaries selling cures for various ailments.

Hangover? Got it.

Headache? Got it.

Morning regret? Got that too.

Alchemists are found most places on Terra, with shops varying in size, but usually with similar importance.

* * *

Spells are magically enscribed pieces of paper or parchment, either written long ago or relatively new. These enchanted pages allow magic-sensitive readers to learn the spells (This can be easy for some, difficult for others, or impossible for some still) written and described in their pages. What these spells are depend on the talent they're trying to teach. Spellbooks are entire dictionaries of spells.

* * *

Furthering that, enchanting is the act of inscribing magical powers into something. Wether this be a weapon, a wall, a shield, armor, or what have you. These can be wards, buffs, or other magical inscriptions. Wards are typically carved into military bases, to guard their walls against magical attack and from attack of creatures like Vampires.

Enchanting a certain type of magic into a weapon, with this example being a hammer with pyromantic inscription, will impart the effect desired into it. With a hammer, which deals in impact and force and speed, swinging the fire enchanted weapon can cause a tremor of flame to erupt a short distance away. If it (the hammer) impacts, for example, a tank then depending on the armor of the vehicle, the strength of the user and hammer itself, it will either cause damage to the tank or can drive a firey tremor directly into the thing and cook the crew.

Of course, one has to get close enough for that to matter, but still.

Enchanting can go beyond the typical schools of magic, though, if the enchanter is willing to try hard enough. For example, a fairly rare enchantment is the 'Holding' enchantment, which is typically inscribed to a bag or a case.

This creates, in essence, a 'hammerspace' inside of the container allowing _far_ more to be stored within than should be possible. This effect is constant, unless the container is destroyed, and the amount depends on the size of the container, the stuff put in, and skill of the enchanter. Destroying the container loses the items forever.

* * *

(Gettin' all up in that fantasy grill now ain't I)

(Don't worry, story continues soon!)


	77. Shopkeeps and Apothecaries

The Citadel was on fire in the most metaphorical sense. The Batarians were gone, slaves (those that survived) were returned with military escort after thorough bath, cleansing, and healing, and the Terrans showed their mettle against a full demonic infestation even if it meant annihilating a planet to end it. When footage surfaced of the weapons that were so popular in Council Space, the mass driven ones, doing fuck and all to the demon spawn on Khar'Shan, most that owned the weapons looked at them with fear.

Their weapons did _nothing_ to the things!

On either side of the board, it was decided. The Terrans would allow more visas into Terran space, for aliens to explore their territroy for a period and the Council would allow manufacturers to set up shop on the Citadel and allow Terran items to be sold there. In return, Council merchants would be allowed to set up shop where allowed.

The Council even allowed (due to increasing pressure from the populace) Terran gun manufacturers to sell on the Citadel. Might as well.

So it was, a horde of Terran merchants came to the Citadel and were met with some apprehension but mostly with wonder.

They were allowed to set up in the Zakera Ward, where the other shops were at (or most of them, anyway) and quickly so they did.

And stuck out like a sore thumb.

Alien shops are sleek, smooth metal. A nearly organic addition to the place.

Terran shops were usually wood, metal, and stone panelling. Some, especially the weapon shops, were more industrial looking with metal mesh screens guarding the tellers and weapons that were unloaded from crates and put on display shelves. Boxes of ammo were set to the storage, an unbelieveable amount of ammo but was needed. The Terrans smelled blood in the water, after all.

Souvenier shops opened as well, selling Terran toys of all kinds. Ranging from dolls and action figures to model ships and cars to board games and other tinker toys to music boxes and the odd magical item.

Candy shops even! Candy shops opened up selling their confections from around the world, a veritable rainbow of color in plastic and paper wrappings.

Restaurants from around the Earth opened as well, an immediate hellfire for the aliens who wanted to try Terran food but due to Terran stubborness never could.

However, most popular of the lot were the weapon shops.

After it was seen that the Council weapons wouldn't do shit to the demons, or very little, and Terran weapons would (why they didn't understand, but that they did was enough), once it was set to 'Open!' there were customers.

"Explain this weapon to me, please," asks a Turian holding a pistol in his hand. The thing was strange, it was heavier in the front with a fairly long barrel (for a pistol anyway) at 5.5 inches, a little over 2 pounds, and had what appeared to be an internal box magazine which the Turian had no experience with. But the box had no exit out the bottom, is it loaded from the top? It's handle was also strange, what the Terrans would recognize as a broom handle.

"This is a descendent of the Mauser C96, an old Terran weapon from WW2. It's chambered in 9mm and will kill anything short of a Krogan without armor."

"How does it reload?" the confounded Turian shakes his head "I don't see where-"

The Terran asked for the weapon back, the Turian gives it to him, and the Terran pulls back the slide, locking the hammer back with it. There a little opening was over the box. "You load a stripper clip into there. It'll hold ten rounds."

"Stripper clip?" These were strange words to him.

The Terran takes a thin strip of metal from behind the screen and in the strip are 10 9mm bullets. He loads the end of the clip into the feed "You press down on the bullets until they're all in, pop out the clip, rack the slide and fire."

"...How much?"

"200 credits."

"Sold. Ammo included?"

The Terran smiled. A way of saying "No way in hell."

"...I'll buy two boxes."

"350 then. 375 with the leather carrying case."

"Give."

"License."

* * *

The Turian wasn't the only one that came that day. There were many. Asari, Salarian, more Turians, hell the odd Krogan! Then there were those that wanted to see as well. Volus, the little rotund aliens that were just so precious and adorable to some of the Terrans in comparison to what they'd seen, were interested in the things as well. While a client race of the Turians, that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy other products.

Then the odd Elcor came in. Happy for the big damn door the Gun merchant put in, because the elephant woulda smashed the thing otherwise.

"Curiously: I wish to see your wares." Toned the Elcor.

"Sure, biggun. Though I don't see how you'd be able to use anything I have." The Terran said curiously. The Terran picked out something large for the Elcor, a mean mugger of a rifle created by an independent company that liked to fashion themselves after a more rugged, rumble and tumble aesthetic than most Terrans which was just gravy for the merchant. The machine gun didn't have the usual cooling sheath of cryogel to cool the barrel. Instead, it was air cooled and had a sheath with corrugated vents all around it.

The whole thing was constructed of metal and wood, which was typical for Terrans, but the thing seemed more fashioned after the race track than anything what with it's obnoxious colors and black-and-white checkered design on the barrel shroud. It had a carrying handle ontop, which was offset of the main body, and it seemed to fancy an ambidextrous design. It had ammo ejection ports on either side of the weapon, and had another magazine port underneath it seemed if someone just wanted to be fancy like that.

"This is chambered in .308, a full rifle round, and weighs a honking 20 pounds." He set it before the Elcor on the heavy riveted metal table and looked up at the strange face of the beast "Created by a company called the 'GunBoyz'. They like obnoxious colors and heavy weapons."

The Elcor noted that, looking over the weapon impressed "Impressed: I can see that, Human. Curiously: Do you humans make many heavy weapons?"

"Heavy's our speciality," he restricted himself from saying 'Sir', he didn't know the difference yet between Male Elcor and female "if you don't mind me saying you look like a walking tank. You use them too?"

"Affirmative: We Elcor use VI and Mass Effect technology to turn ourselves into 'walking tanks' as you put it. The cannons on our backs allow us to lay heavy artillery upon our foes. Proudly: We are a force to be reckoned with. Worriedly: But you Humans seem to have the corner when it comes to heavy weapons."

The Terran smiled "Doesn't mean we can't be friendly. Want to buy anything?"

"Apologetically: No, human, I'm sorry. I merely wanted to see what you had to offer."

"No problem. if you ever _do_ want to buy, I'll hopefully be here."

"Happily: Thank you human! Have a nice day."

* * *

Candy shops seemed to be a thing not expected by the aliens, but they were also popular. Taffy, hard candies, soft candies, all of it came in different shapes, sizes, colors and figurations. Parents even brought their young to the stores, their smiles and "Uh oh" expressions seemed to say "Shouldn't of done that" but they didn't mind. Nor did the candyman behind the store counter which wrapped around the whole other side of the store. He seemed to roll around, probably on skates, as he handed happy children and parents sweets.

"This isn't something I expected to see come from your people," an Asari holding a little Asari toddler said, the youngling on her hip "If you don't mind my saying."

"No such worry, Ma'am," replied the man with a tip of his white hat, his clothing was strangely bright for the Citadel, all red and white striping on his shirt with white pants "I understand that. What would you like?"

"None of the candies will do..odd things, will they? I Know of your people's..magic."

"None such! Not unless you were to ask for them, that is. No, the candies here are safe to eat."

The mother smiled "Thank you. I'll take some."

"At your service, ma'am!"

* * *

As well as these was the Apothecary, whom set up her shop near to a hospital. She specialized in cures, both for mundane ailments and for diseases, for wounded beings and for soothing aches. When she set up her shop, she set it to closed and locked it. Being an alchemist, she was a mage as well, so the ward went up and her store was safe.

She walked to the hospital carrying a leather doctor's bag. Inside her bottles that clinked gently.

When she got to the hospital, she entered. "Excuse me, who are you?" asked an doctor, a nurse maybe.

"I'm a healer from Earth," she began "My name's Saoirse." Sheer-shuh, roughly.

The Asari frowned "I'm sorry but I don't know what you could do that would do more than what we already have. We have this well under control, what patients we have."

"I can assure you, I can heal them. On Earth we see ailments stem from magical and alchemical poisoning or other cause. If my cures can help them, it can help here, and you don't have magic."

The doctor frowned, throwing up her arms in irritation "Goddess I'm going to regret this. Fine."

The doctor let the human in to see some patients that she indeed was having trouble with, she and the doctors. They were pitiful creatures, but so too were any that couldn't be cured by conventional medicines.

"What's affecting them?"

"They've been like this for a while," frowned the doctor "Since the first Batarian riot here." That had indeed been awhile, frowned Saoirse. "I don't know if it's the demons or some poison the Batarians cooked up, but we can't cure it."

"I can." Saoirse walked to one of the aliens, the person looking at Saoirse with curiosity. Firey red hair and light skin with green eyes tended to do that to an alien.

"I need you to do something for me," she placed the bag next to the alien who blinked "I'm going to give you a drink. It may not taste great, but it'll cure you." The alien let out a hoarse laugh.

"Nothing can cure me, Oh spirits.."

"I promise you, I can." She pulled a large, pear shaped bottle from her bag. It surprised her patient and the doctor both, the bottle was filled with a viscous-looking liquid that seemed to glow an almost golden color with flakes of light within. The patient stared at it with wonder. "Could you get me a cup?" Saoirse asks the doctor, who nods mutely and retrieves the item for her.

Unscrewing the cap from the bottle, she holds it in the neck and pours some of the liquid into the bottle surprisingly easier than either of the doctor of patient expected. "What is that?" asks the doctor.

"I'd call it a cure-all but that isn't completely true. I suppose it's enough though. We use this in what we in the Apothecary business 'ApothePaks', kind of like first aid. If it's what I'm assuming, then this'll cure it. WHat _did_ happen to you anyway?"

"The Batarians had poisoned blades," the Turian winces as speaking hurts "Spirits I don't know what was in that poison but it's a slow death."

"Basibane," She frowns and nods, screwing the cap back on and helping the Turian to drink the liquid. It tastes like gold looks. "All the way," she orders, the Turian listens.

As the stuff goes down his throat and hits his belly, he can feel it burn. "Gah! Spirits what was that? Alcohol?"

"The Cure-Alls don't burn, what that is is the Basibane being fought off. It will burn, I apologize, but I promise you'll be on your feet within the week."

"What _is_ 'Basibane'?" Asks the doctor desperately.

"Basilisk Bane. It's a poison harvested from creatures that stalk deep forests, giant snakes, that have a viciously deathly venom. When diluted, it doesn't outright kill. Instead, it makes the victim suffer what's like a sort of muscular disintegration over time. It's a watered-down version of that creatures venom and named so because the Basilisk usually have to be killed to get it. The Batarians must've gotten it from the demons, no doubt they may've stolen some of the creatures from our world."

"They came from Earth?"

"They probably got it from some of the alchemy peddlars," Saoirse almost growls "Figures. Yes, Basilisks come from Earth. Kind of." She turns to the patient "How do you feel?" she asks after giving him another drink of Cure-All.

"Spirits I..I feel alive again. I hurt, but I feel like I can operate again."

"Good. I'll give you a third drink, that should be enough. Do the others suffer the same?" She asks after administering the third drink.

"Yes," frowns the Asari.

"I have enough. Come, let's cure them."

So they did. As she said, by the end of the week, the patients were walking tall again.


	78. A close call

The Terran shops were on fire, metaphorically speaking. Their products, while expensive no doubt, would last long as was the Terran way. Build to last and the price would be worth it, they figure. Gun ranges were stuffed with aliens wielding new Terran weapons and testing the strange things, ranging from pistols to rifles to atleast one machine gun. The smell of gunpowder, the report of the weapons, and the harsher kick of the guns took getting used to, but the aliens couldn't help but notice a certain feeling they got from them. They were warm, every single one of them, and the firing of them was more of an adrenaline rush than they noticed with other weapons. Whatever it was, they didn't know, but they enjoyed the new, heavier weapons.

That they could kill demons was something that just added the cherry.

* * *

The Councilors were surprised when they got a transmission from the Council of Terra itself, the three of them coming together to see what they wanted.

"Councilors, to what do we owe the pleasure?" Greeted Tevos.

"Councilors," nodded the head of the councilors "The men and women of the African Union, during the war on Khar'Shan, managed to infiltrate Batarian High Comamnd and pick up some data that you may be interested in." The man's voice was grave.

"The Batarians are gone, what could we be shown that would be of such interest?"

"See for yourself." Their terminals, after much checkng, got notifications.

Checking their omni-tools, they read the data packet sent their way.

"They..they've been planning an attack for a long time," Tevos shook, eyes widening "They've been under control of the demons for some time now."

"Looking at these numbers, and the perceived numbers of the future...We wouldn't have stood a chance." Valern looked up at the Terran Council with eyes wider than they already were "They would've annihilated us with their demonic assistance."

"We accelerated their plans by fourty years, sir," nodded a councilman "They weren't expecting someone like us to come along, with experience in exactly what gave them an advantage. While we eventually were forced to do the unthinkable, we put a stop to a greater invasion of Council space and other territories. They were caught underpowered and behind schedule."

"Thank you. On behalf of all of us, thank you." Sparatus said, breathless.

"Do not waste this." The Terran councilors cut the connection.

The councilors were caught by just how close they were to losing it all to demonic invasion. Fourty years. A blip in the eyes of an Asari, half a life time to a Turian, a full lifespan for a Salarian.

Nothing to a demon.

* * *

"Not bad for a day's wage," the gun merchant nodded, looking over said profits. The Aliens were obsessed with Terran guns, probably from the news showing the war. Biggest propaganda reel ever, he thinks. Sure, there's an absolute _truth_ in the fact that Terran weapons could hurt them, but still. Whatever, more money for him! He could transfer it to Terran currency when he gets back home.

Surprisingly, even his stock wasn't enough for demand. He ordered another load from Terra, ammo and guns both, because he'd need it soon with how the aliens were going through his stock.

He smiled.

More money for him!

* * *

"One, two, three o'clock, four o'clock rock!  
Five, six, seven o'clock, eight o'clock rock!  
Nine o'clock, ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock rock! We're gonna rock! Around! The clock tonight!

Well put ya glad rags on/ and join me hon' we'll have some fun/ when the clock strikes one!"

Customers streamed into the store at the sound of the music playing, a tune different from what they were used to by far, and many began to bob slightly to the sound of Bill Haley and the Comets! They'd never seen physical copies of music before, never so far as copies like the store offered. Records and record players, some were even simply radio cassette players with their accompanying casettes on tape.

Some were using ear muffs to listen to other musicians, such as Little Richard singing Long Tall Sally, or Elvis Presley with Jailhouse Rock.

"I've never seen these kind of music records before," to mosts surprise, the customer was a Krogan "I'm assuming a machine is needed to play them."

"That's right," The teller, as well, was a Mechanoid. A gynoid, to be specific, with a wig of brown hair tied back while she wore a denim jacket and white slacks ending in black shoes "I sell mobile record players or home-based record players. I also sell larger players, if you're interested." The store was brightly colored, records hung up on the wood-paneled walls while racks of records were on display with the artists names boldly there. The store offered 'test machines', basically record players with plugins for ear phones.

As well, there was art of old and new artists from Earth, mechanoid and human, and the varying styles meant that there was plenty to choose from.

"I'll take one to go, I'm getting out of here soon." Here meaning the Citadel "Not a place for Krogan apparently."

The gynoid chuckled "To where?" She asks as she picks an assortment of machines for the Krogan to choose from.

"Earth," the Krogan says hopeful "I can't tell you how many of my kind have gone there already."

"I can," smiles the Gynoid "Alot! That'll be 200 credits, more if you want music."

"I would," the Krogan sets his choice on the desk which she accepts and tallies "There aren't many places we can find haven without much in the way. After the genophage, well, we're not regarded as much but mercs."

"The what now?" asks the gynoid as she accepts a credit chit from the Krogan and scans it. The technology is still strange to her, she prefers _substance_ not holograms.

"The Genophage. It cuts Krogan fertility rates to a horrible amount." the Krogan's voice was ice and the aliens nearby were deadset on avoiding him and the gynoid while he was there. Shows how correct he was, she supposed. "Thousands die in still-birth. Most, not even that far."

The Gynoid would've felt her blood chill if she had any.

She focused on the Krogan, the world faling away, as her very mind seemed incapable of comprehending.

"What did that to you? Demons?" Was her first assumption.

"Salarians and Turians," the Krogan growled, picking up the leather case given to him by the teller, which he set the music box and record cases into "Like beasts. So I'm going to Earth and I'm staying. I might as well make what I have worth it."

"Yeah..do that.." the Gynoid was stunned, dumb and limp in the brain.

The rest of the day..went by in a blur.

She made profit, but she couldn't understand what she just heard.


	79. A growing home

The Quarians threw celebrations, which they couldn't do on the fleet due to a lack of resources, when their people returned from war. Not all of them came home but those that did atleast brought a piece of them home: Dog tags issued to them by the Terrans for their contribution to the war right out the gate. Their bodies were long since destroyed, glassed by the Terran bombardments before Khar'Shan cracked open and was left a wreck of what once was.

The tags were stamped steel on metal beaded chain with the names of the once owners of the Quarians that died. They were buried with all honors and ceremony and those that came home were happy to be there with their people again.

"What was it like?" asked one of the Quarians, who hadn't gone to the war.

"Shit," replied an engineer who worked at the last base evacuated before it was attacked by the Maleficarum "It was..otherworldly, like a bad dream. You couldn't sleep, no matter how hard it was attempted. No sleep, constant gunfire and an endless attack by the demons and vampires. The Terrans seemed in their element for awhile, right in the thick of it, but even they couldn't handle not sleeping. Days and nights, if you could call it that, just..melted together. It was like one long endless twilight."

"Keelah," breathed another Quarian "Where did these things come from?"

"The Batarians summoned them, according to the Terrans. They did so and must've attempted to get one over on it." Seeing his fellows confusion, the Quarian shrugs "Get something for free. According to the Terrans, you just don't do that. It's also apparently common for demon summonings on Earth, the Terrans are just punctual with their deals and pay their summons back for services rendered."

The collection of Quarians were in varying stages of shock, many stayed silent as they tried to process the information. Terrans summon demons? On purpose? The Batarians summoned demons on purpose? Khar'Shan was gone. Really, actually gone.

"What about the Terrans? What were they like?" Asks a curious young girl, eyes bright and wide behind her opaque helmet.

"Punctual," smiles the engineer "When they say they're going to do something, they're going to do it. Either put your mind to it and get the work done or move out of the way for someone who can. 'Assholes and elbows!' was what our sergeant said often. Means get moving, I want to see you working, not loitering around. They hit the ground and immediately started building and fighting. Once a Terran gets going, nothing stops them, short of death but even then they have Necromancers. They don't stop. Terrans are terrifyingly efficient, even if they look primitive."

"They gave us this world," replies the girl "When no one else would."

"For rent, but yes," replies another Quarian, older and probably the girls father, because she snuggled upto him "It's good to have a place to settle."

"How has it grown since we've been gone?" Asks the engineer.

"Wonderfully. The Terran mercenary, Erik Haggard, has been here helping to build and there was actually a car salesman that came here and sold us a fleet of vehicles to help around the colony. Sleazy man, but he had good stock and because of it and a few more deals, we have a motor pool! Haggard's men have been teaching us how to drive the vehicles and maintain them."

"That sounds wonderful," smiles the engineer, finally feeling at home.

"It is. The farm is up and running and the merchants from Earth have been coming here to set up temporary shop. Because of that, we've got an economy going now."

"Wonderful!" The engineer yawns "If you don't mind I..I'm gonna take a nap."

"Go ahead, you deserved it." The Quarians say their goodbyes and leave the engineer to his sleep.

It was..hard to obtain, sleep, but once he did, he had dreams. Flashbacks, really, of Khar'Shan.

* * *

 _His shotgun kicked against his arm while the slug screamed down range, impacting a posessed Batarian and taking his head clean off, splattering ichor and black blood everywhere. The tick screamed, a high pitched, trilling scream as it convulsed before finally going stiff. Score four! That was four Batarians! The human next to him laughed, pulling the pin on a grenade and throwing the thing at a pocket of spawnlings. "Well fuckin' done!" The human congratulated him on a job well done._

 _The Quarian grinned under his helmet. He wore modified Terran armor, fit for his body. It worked, he could admit that, because he took_ multiple _strikes that would've been lethal without the armor. He also wore a Mithril chainmail shirt which extended all the way down his arms and legs, with ceramic armor strapped in with leather and buckled with cast iron. In all, the armor was protecting his suit from puncture and his body from suffering too much damage._

 _The Terrans outfitted_ all _the Quarians with it, as they allied themselves with the Terrans. The council fleet soldiers, however, all they got was guns. Can't trust them, the way the Terrans saw it._

 _Racking the slide on the shotgun, the Quarian leaned up and fired again catching a spawnling right in its lamprey mouth and ducked back into cover. It was his last shell, the last in the tube anyway, and started his reload. He had to try really hard not to focus on the ground which was like a hairy scalp, as though they were walking on somethings head, and any damage done to it caused blood to seep out. He, and his human ally, were hiding behind a fallen 'tree' if the limb looking things could be called that. From a distance, they looked like trees, but up close they better resembled blackened, twisted arms reaching up into the sky with claw like fingers, as though a giant mummy was buried beneath the scalp._

 _It even seeped ichor._

 _They weren't trees, the Quarian realized, they were growing demons! Planted in the ground!_

 _He shuddered, racking the slide back loading a 12g shell and leaned up, taking a shot to the chest that was absorbed by the armor and padding, and returned fire catching a Batarian in the chest right back. The slug blew out the Batarians chest, but the thing kept screaming and firing. A face pulled taut to the skull by the tick that held it, black blood seeping from the nose and ears. The Batarian's arm was moulded around what might've been an assault rifle once upon a time, now firing..something. It appeared to be...bone, solid bone, moulded and formed somehow._

 _Demons._

 _Spawnlings screeched as they ran at the Quarian and Human's position, fumbling over eachother as they ran. The two fired their weapons at the spawnlings, taking limb from the fragile beasts and drawing gouts of blood. When they got too close, the Quarian retrieved his combat blade strapped to his leg and stabbed into the spawnlings neck, twisting and severing the spine. The Human did similar, except taking a broad blade to the thing. He punched the spawnling, the guard covered the hand and the blade was a heavy, machete like thing. With a punch, punch, and finally a heavy slash from the right shoulder and down to the left, the spawnling was split in two and the body fell with a slop._

 _"Come on!" The human growled firing his shotgun "Come on and get me!" A slash, a stab, punch, and fire._

 _They just kept coming._

* * *

"Gah!" the engineer awoke, expecting to be on Khar'shan. Instead, he was on Zeek. His heart raced and his head hurt, his breath quick. He sighed, laying back against the couch. He was back on Zeek, but he left something on Khar'Shan. The way he saw it, everyone did. He lost people there. The Terrans lost people there. Everyone did.

Khar'Shan was gone, but it continued to live in them.

He couldn't suppress a minute whimper. He hoped he'd get some sleep soon.


	80. A wounded pride

Those that managed to come back from Khar'Shan, out of an army of soldiers from the Asari Republics, the Salarian Union, and the Turian Hierarchy, came back with memories of a war they never thought possible and an enemy they thought would simply fall to the combined might of the Council and Alliance of Terra but what they saw haunted them evermore.

A collection of these soldiers, a few Turians, a couple Asari, and more than a few Salarians, were in Flux, a bar down in the wards. A fancy place, but they had the money and they needed the beer. The club was awash with laser lights and thumping music, patrons dancing at the two floors while some sat at tables to eat and drink.

"Heh, funny.." chuckles an Asari to her fellows "It's Terran beer."

"Can't get away from 'em," a Salarian replies with a small smile "No matter how you may try."

"Ain't that the truth," a Turian mumbles into his beer bottle before he tips it back. Tastes..different to Turian beer, but he supposed no two drinks might be the same coming from Earth, considering how damn many there were. Go down the street and see another culture all it's own.

Terrans.

"Something else you can't get away from," the Terran looks at his fellows and the weapons on their hips "is Terran guns." He wasn't one to talk, he himself had a Terran gun as well.

"They actually hurt the demons, you saw what happened!" accuses an Asari who was at the forefront of that hell.

* * *

 _"They just won't die!" her rifle beeps and hisses with steam as her rifle overheats and her target just doesn't die. Switching tactics, she uses a biotic push to send the Batarian flying, finally ending its flight when it hits a building and smushes. The Tick however survives and infects a new host. Being fully grown, the pain is even worse for the poor wretch, as the tick burrows into the skull and begins melting the brain, ruthlessly pulling the skin back until it tears and distorts._

 _Their weapons were doing nill to the demons, Batarians and spawnlings that were attacking them. Sure, they jerked and convulsed but they kept coming. The Spawnlings were susceptible, but that was only after some time under fire. The Batarians, posessed by the Ticks, were superhuman. They just wouldn't die. Being taught to fire center-mass, the chests of the Batarians suffered but that didn't do much with the tick controlling them. The only way to kill them was to end the tick, but it seemed thet it did something to the Batarians' heads, because they were hard to penetrate._

 _"Damn it! Our weapons are useless!"_

 _"Are there any Terran weapons near?"_

 _"Out of cover!"_

 _"Use your biotics and pick it up, then!"_

 _The Asari did so, picking up the weapon after pulling it to her. She checked to make sure it was loaded, satisfied when she found it to be so, and fired upon the Batarians. The results were glorious for them, because the heavy calibre bullet tore a hole through the Batarian skull and blew the tick apart in a bloody shower of gore. A few well placed bursts, the demons and Batarians attacking were felled._

 _Dumbfounded, the Asari pulled the magazine out._

 _"Silver," she breaths "Silver bullets."_

 _"We need Terran weapons," her allies were in agreement with that statement._

* * *

"I know, I know.." the Turian sighed and took another drink. Not bad.

"What was that Terran's name? He and his men found us, got us a ride back to their base of operations."

"Something unpronouncable," replies another Asari "I couldn't understand his name. Linge something."

"Hlengiwe," says a voice behind them. A familiar, accented voice, that makes them all turn their heads to see the African ranger who wears a smile on his scarred face "Fancy meeting you all here."

"What in the blue blazes are you doing here?" asks a Turian sniper who stands and gives the man a handshake, "I thought you'd of gone back to Amazonia or something."

"Not yet, I'm going back to Amazonia and then going back to Zululand after. Surviving that hell only makes me appreciate Terra all the more."

"How'd you find us?" Asks a Salarian engineer, who had the pleasure of working on some of the ATVs the African Union used so often.

"A bunch of aliens with Terran weapons moping over a bar? Hard to miss," He chuckles good naturedly, bringing some happiness back to the group. That laugh always did help "Are you all okay?" Hlengiwe knew the answer was a resounding and boisterous _absolutely not_ , but he had to ask, and when he got such an answer from the group in a deadpan tone, he smiled sadly "I understand.."

He motioned to a rather large table "Join me?"

Some decided to, others stayed at the bar.

Two Turians, an Asari, a Salarian, and an African Ranger. Almost like a bar joke, all things considered.

Hlengiwe sipped his beer, sitting in companionable silence with the aliens (Much as he could, anyway, considering the _annoying_ thumping in his ears, damn you flux he thought) until one of them, the Salarian, broke the less-than-silence.

"How do you do it?"

"Eh?"

"Fight those demons. How do you do it? The war ended with Khar'Shan obliterated, sure, but how? The others made it sound like you're _constantly_ fighting demons, vampires, werebeasts and more."

"That's a good question," Hlengiwe tips back his beer and sets the brown bottle onto the table and looks at it contemplatively "I suppose we did it by becoming the biggest, meanest things on the street. There was a time when Humans were afraid of the things in the dark, you know. You could read it, all about it, in old texts. Hell, it's probably on the..whatever you call the internet here. We thought they were fantasy, tall tales. Now, we swear up and down that it's historical recount."

"So by becoming the scarier thing you beat back the scary thing," replies a Turian with an almost humored tone to her voice "That sounds simple."

"Oh definitely, just invest an economy in high calibre silver bullets," Hlengiwe smiled. It wasn't a joke. "We've only ever seen infestations that bad when it comes to the interims, the places between. Aside from that, Demons are like businessmen. Give 'em a good deal."

"You make it sound so easy," shakes the head of an Asari, the one who splatted the creature before "Like breathing."

"It isn't, it's downright scary, but we've come a long way and have been learning how to do it since our entire _species_ was in its infancy. We just learned how to industrialize the process and make them skitter along. Khar'Shan was just...a particularly awful circumstance."

"A hell hole," the group say in unison.

"A hell hole!" Hlengiwe drinks down all his beer and sighs, straightening up "A full bore hell hole. Look, you're gonna say 'oh typical' but seriously. Invest in ammo for those guns you got."

"Why didn't ours do any damage?" asked the Salarian with a dumbfounded tone "They're powerful in their own right!"

"Oh for sure," Hlengiwe says with no trace of sarcasm "They fucking hurt, too. Against a similar opponent, your gear's downright deathly. Against _us_ , because we have magical materials, it takes longer. Against a _demon_ , infant or no, your weapons are the equivalent of you poking them and asking them to die."

"Why?"

"Our projectiles fragment, split and splinter, or atleast many do. Against a demon, or a vampire, or a werewolf, that hurts. Add _silver_ to it, which is anathema to the creatures, and it's like..it's like drinking lava. It just _melts_ them, because Silver is pure, it's a holy metal, where they are _'unclean'"_ he says with air quotes. "Silver, with bullets of our calibre, are _the_ go to thing when fighting beasts."

"Our weapons just don't do enough, then. They're built for kinetic energy, they fire bullets the size of a grain of sand and transfer energy to the target. So..kinetic energy doesn't kill them?"

"You bet it does, but you're missing the point. Your projectiles are _tiny_. Ours are large. Silver is used to kill demons. Our bullets are large, fragment, and erupt into wound channels in the demon. Ontop of the bleeding, which won't stop because _silver_ , the silver itself kills them from the inside out. It's a quick-acting poison, the very thing that the _can't_ touch, they can't handle, because once weaponized it will end their existance. Frankly, your weapons are just not suited for killing demons. Ours are."

Hlengiwe sighs and looks at the watch on his wrist "I have to go. It was good meeting you all again, stay safe." he shakes their hands and leaves, leaving a group of dumbfounded aliens.

They weren't just inexperienced Demon Hunters. They were underequipped demon hunters.

And that..that hurt their pride.

* * *

(I tried.)

(KentLogan: Awesome story, this is.

...  
Where the heck is Ares though? You'd think he'd love this massive ass war..."

...I feel very ashamed and very small for having forgotten the God of War himself.

I need to sulk.)


	81. A raging debate

The Citadel Council were shown videos, shared by the Blackwatch and Alliance of Terra Council themselves, of the field of battle on Khar'Shan. What they saw confused them. They were..listening to people sing and from their throats, from their instruments, and from their motions, they created magic. Not just magic, but a kind of magic they weren't used to. Sure, they'd seen Pyromancers call down flaming meteors from the skies, seen Aeromancers summon grand tornadoes, and Terramancers tear open the Earth and create spires of earth for their allies. But, this was different.

These men and women, these Bards as the Terrans called them, were creating incredible fields of magic. Some of them, sung by voices warm and careful, created fields around their allies. Where the Spawnlings came close to these fields, they burned and screamed away as the protective fields warded them away. Then, other bards would sing songs in a more aggressive tone, actions far more energetic, and their faces showed contempt for the demons they fought. From these songs and from the strings spawned waves and bolts of magical energy, creating shockwaves in the demon lines, as spears of magic were sent into the earth of Khar'Shan dissolving and creating sonic booms of sheer power.

The three aliens were currently unaware of how to handle this information.

"I don't understand," laments Valern "How does this work?"

A Blackwatch Archwizard sighed " _Councilor_ I've told you. Magic. We've _told you_ how magic works. You _know_ how it works."

"I don't! Magic makes no logical sense!"

"Magic doesn't follow many laws, Councilor," stressed the Archwizard, an ancient man, an elder, with a beard of white and face of sagging skin on a skull. Looking vaguely living, but with the health of a man _leagues_ younger than him. "Aside from it's own and the power of the mage, Magic has few laws to follow. You're trying to think on it too logically, which is your downfall. Magic is beyond that. Bards utilize magic in a way most don't: Through song."

"But it-!"

"Enough!" Roars the Elder "Waste my time further on this and I will leave. You can look at the footage until your eyes bleed and it will not change the laws of magic. Bards, Gunmages, Enchanters, and Alchemists are just differing schools of magical practice. They all do their craft differently. If you cannot handle that, I will not continue this Odin forsaken attempt any longer. Goodbye, Councilor. I will be here for three more days. After that, you will be abandoned as I have _far_ more important things to do than babysit a toddler that doesn't understand magic."

The insult flew over Valern's head. No, it went right through it. He knew hew as insulted, but he was too busy contemplating. While the Elder left, Valern still tried to think.

He can't understand it.

It's illogical!

If only he knew.

"Elder! Wait!" The man stopped, turning and glaring at the Councilors who felt three inches tall "Please, don't abandon us. What will we do if the demons return? You know weapons, give us your opinion."

The Elder came back, with a wave of the hand summoning a table and chairs before the three and sat at the head of the table. The Councilors paid no heed to the summons and sat down.

"They're not the worst," the Elder begins "Matter of fact they're astoundingly powerful," that made the Councilors feel good atleast. "Your weapons deliver an ungodly amount of damage for such a relatively simple platform, much as that can be said for such weapons. They fold up, allowing you to carry more, which is a decent way of doing things. Well done on you for it. My biggest concern, I think, has to be the ammo. Switch it for silver, or atleast have soldiers carry a block of the stuff incase of demonic combat or to halt creatures like Vampires and Werebeasts. I don't care how you do it, but silver is a need. Powerful as your weapons are, Silver is what'll stop them from ever coming back."

"Whatever frills aren't going to help the weapon be functional first and pretty last, drop them like a sack of Gods forsaken hammers. If it isn't effective first, it isn't worth it, I don't care _who_ owns the damned thing. When you suffer another demonic incursion, you'll need effective first and pretty second."

They catalogued it all in their heads, nodding along, before Tevos spoke up.

"Excuse me?" Sparatus startled "You think there will be more demonic incursions?"

"I _know_ there will be, Councilor, do not take me a fool. It's your duty to prepare for them."

"So we have your advice on that, what do you suggest for materials? Our weapons aren't as weak as you take them for, Archwizard, they're just not made of the same stuff as yours."

"Gods you're right there, atleast," the Archwizard grumbled "Our weapons, even made of simple iron or wood, are typically alchemically treated. They're tougher than the normal stuff and our rugged designs make sure of effectiveness."

"We don't have Alchemists, Archwizard," Tevos groaned "We can't do what you do."

"No, but still, try to think with more durability in mind. Durable as they are, they could always be more-so.

"What _other_ critiques do you have of our weapons, Archwizard?"

"They overheat like mad. You need to find a way to halt that overheating, because otherwise your people will be stuck waiting for their weapons to cool down in the middle of a fight which will _kill_ combat effectiveness and volume of fire. Do that and you can have a decent platform to kill demons with."

"Thank you, Archwizard, we appreciate the help." Tevos bowed her head respectfully.

"Do not waste this opprotunity, Councilors, your people are all counting on you. As much as we give you shit, the Alliance doesn't want to see you fall."

With a wave of his hand, the table and chairs dissipated leaving the Councilors to fall on their rumps while the Archwizard dissipated from existance.

* * *

The Terran industrial machine was carrying on after the fall of Khar'Shan. While most of their industry flipped from War to Peace, there were still many factories that, by commission, continued the creation of vehicles for their respective militaries. The Terrans were ramping up colonization, what with their biggest opponent erased now, and with colonization came the industry of protection.

Armored vehicles for exploration, the computers and technology that went with it, and the creation of arms and armor for protection. Theadra was hard at work. She worked in one of those factories, those that made the armored exploration vehicles. Putting the final rivet into what would be the left side of the armored vehicle, she wiped sweat from her brow and went for the next. Terran factories, at the very least American factories (She figured others may too), kept workers on one thing. Theadra was a riveter, who along with others put the rivets into their products that would make the shell. Other workers would be doing the frame, the engine, etc. and would do that until their shift was over.

It took strain off the individuals, as they just had to do the same motions rather than learn how to do _everything_ , but they did have a unique way of doing it.

Person A would teach Person B their job, PB would teach PC their job, PC would teach PD theirs, etc. If someone were to go down, for some reason, then the person under them would be able to do their job and so on.

It worked, because Theadra was working in a well oiled machine. "What're these going onto?" Theadra asks as she fires a rivet into the hole, a buckboard behind it. She was using a rivet gun, with an exosuit designed for the work and to take the brunt off of the user. With her were a few other riveters, men and women, and was still getting over the fact that one of the people she was working with was a Quarian.

"A six-wheel, all-terrain beast, if down the line is any indication," he joins her in the riveting, twin buckboards smushing the rear of the rivet and creating a button on each side joining the armors together. Once all the rivets were completed, it was another side sent their way. "A few companies are commissioning vehicles for the colonization efforts being undertook now. Gotta have something that can climb and climb, way they see it."

"Makes sense, some of the terrains I've seen out there need it." Rivet, rivet, rivet.

"And they just like the ruggedness of it," chuckles the Quarian. He wore a blue suit, slashed with grey. "With the surplus in Adamantium after the war, more mechs are being made." Theadra blinked at that, it made sense all things considered. Adamantium was used to create the joints and skeleton of the mechs after all, with uber strong metal for joints they could take anything.

"How you know that?"

"They said it," the Quarian looks at her as though she grew a second head "And I've seen it. More explorer mechs are being made, to say nothing of civilian. Some of the things they do with them are nuts."

"Like?" Rivet, rivet, rivet.

"Well, I've seen in catalogues and magazines that they're making mining platforms on mechs. Mobile labs, gardens. You name it, they're doing it."

Theadra smiled "Take a concept and run with it!"

"It's a good thing." Rivet, rivet, rivet.

The rest of the shift continued on into the day until finally she and the rest were allowed off. They made good progress, they made plenty of armor today! She and the Quarian went to eat in the lot of the local diner, a jumbo sized Air Stream trailer complete with porthole windows, corrugated metal siding, and distinctive shape. As well as the inside there was the outside with tables covered by red and white striped umbrellas. The top of which was painted blue. It made Theadra snicker.

The factory workers, the lot of them, went into the diner itself. 'Diana's Diner' was its name.

"Evening, what can I get you?" Diana, a woman dressed in a blue denim vest and pants (the woman seemed obsessed with the stuff, apparently), with her black hair pulled back in a ponytail, was a stern woman the workers found out. Don't fuck with her diner, they knew that for a fact, but she was a fair woman and she kept her customers topped off, even if it sometimes cut into profit.

"I'll take a burger and coke, thanks," Theadra smiled, retrieving her wallet.

"Tube for me, spiced meat." The Quarian was woeful that he couldn't eat actual food, but twas his curse.

"Coming right up." Diana took to getting the rest of the orders while Theadra and the Quarian went to their seats, a booth by one of the windows. The portholes were larger than typical Air Streamers, but were in the same style. The floors were white and red checkers, with the booths themselves being red and white stripe with red as the main color for the cushion itself. The stools were similar: White and red alternating colors.

Theadra looked around the diner, seeing Diana's flag emblazoned upon the wall. Along the wall with it were paintings and other art, some of it landscape others were of the diner itself with past patrons' pictures on the walls, friends of Diana's and longtime patrons of the diner. There were posters as well, although not exactly like the ones outside. Oh sure, they were in the same style, but they were more humorous and were geared toward food and drink.

"How long have you been working in the factory?" Theadra asked the Quarian who tapped the light on his mouthpiece, silver eyes angled up in thought for a second.

"A week after the Terrans allowed us to rent Zeek. I _was_ going to Earth, but they wouldn't take me so I came here."

"Shanxi seems a hell of a busy place," Theadra laughs softly. "Came all this way? Didn't stay on Zeek?"

"I was supposed to go on my pilgrimage anyway," the Quarian supplies "so I came here."

"Pilgrimage?" She says surprised "Isn't that-?"

"Our coming of age, yes," the Quarian nods, thanking an android waiter who brings their selected foods. While she didn't order it, Theadra got a pile of fries too causing her to smile. Thanks, Diana. "I'm 18 years old."

"So young and working in a factory?" Theadra raises a brow as she takes a bite of the burger. Diana knew she wasn't a fan of veggies, Turians being carnivores hence their physical makeup.

"The Terrans hire younger," the Quarian retorts good naturedly as he holds the warm tube in his hand "You've seen the general goods store, I assume. There's a fourteen year old working there!"

Theadra chuckled as she chewed and nodded, she had indeed seen the lad.

* * *

 _Coming to the store for her normal needs; meats, salt, drink, and sauce, Theadra saw something she'd not expected. Behind the counter of the modest store was a young man, atleast fourteen, working the register. The young man had a head of brown hair, tan skin, and eyes a bright brown. He looked up at Theadra and smiled and with youthful energy, bounced into his roll._

 _"What can I get you today?"_

* * *

"I remember him. Parents let him work there on the weekdays as chore, when he doesn't have other chores. Owner even pays him."

"So me being young is nothing to these Terrans," the Quarian smiled.

When it was all said and done, Theadra bid her Quarian workmate farewell. She was going to go home for a bit, then go and meet a friend. Lukas was to go for Earth soon, she wanted to catch him _before_ that.

* * *

(Wanted to say thanks to Pacer287 for the information!)


	82. Reunion P1

Theadra was on her way to Lukas' home. He was still home, she knew that, he wouldn't be off to Earth for another few days. She wanted to see her friend again before he went home to see his family and hoped he was awake.

 _Family_.

The word pained her, a frown working its way onto her features. She hadn't seen Jubia in forever. Hell, she even missed her brother-in-law, Servius! Hard ass that he was, he was a good man and she loved him like the brother she never had. She missed them both. Their son was born by now, a youngling she'd never see because of her defection.

She didn't regret defecting, she didn't think. She got a job she enjoyed, worked with people she liked, and the Terrans were a meritocracy like the Hierarchy although _vastly_ more individualist than the Turians. Every Terran was his or her own person, much like it was in the Hierarchy, although unlike the Hierarchy _who_ trained you mattered less than _what_ you do with that training. One's failings was their own. In the Hierarchy, the failings of one reflected on the other. She prefered the Terran way of doing it. She failed, she took the blame, not the one who trained her.

But still, she left alot behind. All defectees did, because they all doubted they'd get to see family and friends again.

The worry made an uncomfortable knot in her belly which unconsciously she put a hand over. Her head low and frown deep, she hurried her movement to Lukas' home.

* * *

 _Knock knock knock._

Lukas assured Theadra she could come in after answering the door. He was dressed standard, with a grey shirt and blue denims. He bore a smile on his face, moving to the side allowing Theadra entry. He closed the door behind her when she came in, the thing clicking behind her showing that it was fully closed. His house wasn't much, not that he needed it. A living room that led to the kitchen and dining room, all in one room, and off to the right side was the hallway that led to the bathroom and the bedroom. Off that was the basement entrance and in the kitchen was the door leading out to the (relatively) small backyard with a patio. The kitchen had plenty of counters and cabinets with a stove, apron sink, fridge, and trash can.

Living room had a couch, a few chairs, a table, and alot of storage, many of them steel lockboxes. The room was simple, plaster walls bordered with dark wood, a few lights here and there.

Had all the essentials, that's all he needed.

"How're you doing?" Lukas asks, inviting Theadra to sit at his couch.

She accepts.

"A bit better, now," Theadra smiles at Lukas who sits across from her "I was just at Diana's Diner and had some dinner after lunch."

"Agh, I love Diana's."

"Same. How about you?"

Lukas smiled sadly "Surviving."

Theadra frowned, hands knitted together as she leaned forward onto her knees, taking in Lukas' features.

He was older now than he should be, she could tell that much. He aged on Khar'Shan, although only having been gone a few months it must've felt like years for him.

Theadra reflected on that. How long had it been since the Terrans were found?

A year? Two? Three? Been awhile, she knew that. She couldn't quite remember. FCW started 2150..had it really been so short a time? Or long? She couldn't tell anymore, could she.

He wasn't much older than she, really, but he certainly seemed it. "You left something on Khar'Shan, didn't you," Theadra didn't know if she should ask, but the words leapt from her mouth before she could stop it really.

"We all did. I _know_ I did, can't get it back. Khar'Shan's a ruin, now. I watched it, you know," Lukas' eyes seemed to glaze over. He was back there, now. "I watched Khar'Shan burn, I could hear it cry. I could hear a billion souls dying even on the fleet when the call of Exterminatus was answered. _God_ , that's a sound you never forget."

Theadra frowned, she wanted to speak but what could she say to a man who saw an entire world, a living place, be shattered into a trillion pieces?

"But even _on_ Khar'Shan the soundw as awful. Walking on the ground that wasn't salted and purified, you'd hear it groan and cry as though you're walking on somthing, _someone_. Every missed shot sent up a fountain of blood, gestating demons were growing from the ground. Constant spawnlings, vampires, and seeing so many people Terran and otherwise die was... _is_ , not easy to deal with. It's a hard battle, Theadra."

"I can- _can't_ imagine," she stopped herself that time "But I know you don't have to do it alone. You've got friends! You've got _me_ as a friend, Lukas."

Lukas looked up at Theadra and frowned and knitted his brows together, he seemed to look _through_ Theadra then and when she looked into the glossy brown globes, by some flick of magic's wrist she saw it.

* * *

 _He fought the Gods forsaken creature off of his body, kicking it away with an armored boot that was stained with- he didn't_ want _to know, really. The thing, the spawnling, tried to scramble back at him and leapt forward aiming its lamprey mouth at his face, earning for its troubles a broad combat knife into the mouth. It closed its jaws around his arm, the armor scraping and screaming in protest as the grinder of teeth ate at the ceramic, and he could feel knicks into his fingers, but with a growl he wrenched the blade around and started gutting it from the inside out. With a roar, he wrenched the blade out pulling intestine, bits of esophagus, and teeth with it._

 _The spawnling fell dead, but a thousand replaced it._

 _"Come on then! Come and get me!" Lukas roared into battle head first, blade swinging wildly hacking and slashing at everything that wasn't an ally. He was lost in bloodlust, heart thumping with adrenaline almost loud enough to be heard outside, and his ears were awash with a swell of crunching meat and bone,_ _shinging metal, and his own roars lost in the sound of a thousand twisted forms. His armor held, but his stamina was being sapped of its adrenaline stores, and he could feel himself tire._

 _With his heart POUNDING in his ears, he couldn't hear the sweet, sweet sound of a halftrack firing its quad-50_ meatgrinder _into the crowd around him. It was only by the grace of the Gods and Devils that he survived, because with wild abandon he swung and chopped and stabbed and punched like a man posessed._

 _When finally the Spawnlings fell, he could feel his arms being restrained but he kept kicking! "Come on! Come on then! Come get me! COME ON!" he swung, catching an Android in the armor of his chest earning a growl as the knife was wrenched from his snow-white knuckled grip on the blade, which was chipped, dented, and in need of a new sharpening. "Get me! Come get me!" he struggled even as he was loaded up, tied with leather and iron and held down with a heavy boot._

 _"Get him to base, the sergeant's needed there. A Maleficarum is inbound."_

* * *

Theadra screamed "No!" leaping back in the couch, only barely missing whacking her head against the plaster wall by a nosehair.

Theadra's heart pumped, ears awash with the sound, and Lukas was similarly leaning back in his chair but with a catatonic look upon his aged face. Tears streamed down, he was back there now, and Theadra was struggling to return to home, to Shanxi!

When she came back, she scrambled over the table before her and grabbed her friend with all her might "Come back! Come back to Shanxi! Khar'Shan is gone, Lukas!" She shook him, holding him close when that didn't work, scratching the back of his head with her short nails. Lukas _seemed_ to respond a bit better, but was still struggling to come home.

"Come back to Shanxi, you have friends here! Me! You have me! You have family on Earth, Lukas, and you're still alive. Leave Khar'Shan and come back, come back to me, damn you. You have people who need you here!"

Theadra suppressed a growl of pain when Lukas' arms wrapped around her like a Python, holding her close as he shook and shuddered. "Come on, Lukas, come back. You hear me? Follow my voice! Come back home, Lukas," she rubbed the back of his head, tears stinging her eyes as she struggled to maintain composure.

She had a friend to save, damn it!

"Come home," Theadra begged, feeling her friend cry against her.

"I-I'm home," Lukas' voice was quaking, body shivering and drenched in sweat. "I'm home."

"Are you?" Theadra questioned seriously, holding the back of his head.

"I'm home," he said with certainty, although she doubted said certainty.

"Good," Theadra slowly pulled away from him, holding his shoulders as she looks down at him with seriously "Where are you?"

"Shanxi, Eiswald," Lukas answered correctly "Alliance of Terra colony."

"Good man," Theadra nodded, still shaken up by her vision " _Who_ are you?"

"Lukas..Sergeant Lukas, United States Army 3rd Exocorps."

"Good man, Who am I?"

"Theadra, Turian defectee and friend."

"Good," Theadra rubbed the back of his head, looking at him carefully for any deception "Good."

"I'm sorry," Lukas frowned up at her "I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," She smiled down at him "Don't worry. You've got friends so you're safe."

Lukas sighed, leaning back against the chair he sat in and rubbed his sweaty face "Fuck," he swore, wiping himself off with his soaked shirt "Fuck."

"You can say that again," Theadra held his shoulders, finally realizing her position. She had her left knee next to his right, the other leg was pressed to the floor stock straight keeping her standing. She leaned over him, hands on his shoulders, and a part of her mind caused a flush of blue blood to her cheeks before she let him go and stepped back.

"Fuck," Lukas replies humorlessly "I..I need to go change."

"Okay, take your time." Theadra nods, the flush kept to her cheeks but evidently Lukas didn't see it.

Lukas stood, with Theadra's help, to his feet and stumbled his way to his bedroom.

Theadra wumfed onto the couch with a sigh, pulling her legs up to her chest and focusing on her knees.

Her face continued to burn, even as she waited for Lukas to return. This night wasn't going as she expected.

A few minutes later, when Lukas returned, she heard the doorbell.

 _Bing. Bong._

* * *

(You hate me for cliffhangers, don't you.)

(I wanted to apologize for my lack of updates as of late. We're actually moving house, my family and I! My parents _bought_ a house of our own, rather than renting as we've done for forever and as such, we're moving shit over and getting the house ready slowly but surely.)

(Also I wanted to say, I'm in no way trying to be completely accurate in my depiction of what is basically PTSD. This isn't an attempt at accuracy and I'm not even slightly good enough to accurately depict that hell. So I apologize.)

( _Bingbong)_


	83. Reunion P2

Lukas stepped into the bathroom, sweaty and cold. When he closed the door behind him, he looked into the mirror as he flicked the light on.

"God, you look like shit," his reflection said to him. The image of him in the glass was one he sorrowfully only barely recognized. Dark skin, short hair, brown eyes, and aged by a decade. It'd been four years since this all started, the first contact and all. He almost couldn't believe it, four years? Shit, it didn't seem like it.

"So do you," Lukas replies, trying to find humor in the realm of madness he'd stepped into "Though with you being my reflection I guess that's no surprise, huh?" Lukas frowned when he went to scratch his belly.

New bumps.

He lifted his shirt, seeing a crisscross of scars.

Lukas sighed. Spawnling claws were like fish hooks; barbed. They'd get in, but they were hard to get back out. He found that out the hard way.

Lukas lets down his shirt and turns on the sink.

 _fsshh_

The water rushes clear and he cups his hands in the stuff, gathering a bunch of it, and leans down splashing the cold liquid in his face.

With a gasp from the cold, he leans against the porcelain and pants softly.

 _'Fuck_ ,' Lukas swears in his mind before he straightens up.

He can feel his face burn slightly as he recalls the events just a moment ago.

Out of it as he was feeling, even walking, he wasn't oblivious to the position they were both in.

His mind began to reel, what was this? Damn his traitorous mind!

"Shitfuckdamnbugger," Lukas swears and rubs his wet face "Damn it all to hell and back."

Eloquence.

"Damn it," Lukas sighed with a frown, looking at himself in the mirror again "You sad sack of-" He slapped his cheek softly.

He had a friend out there, damn it.

"Gotta change," Lukas reminds himself, leaving the bathroom for his room. Coming out, Lukas took a glance over at the living room, seeing Theadra there.

He smiled slightly. She was on the couch, knees pulled up to her chest, and from the blue in her face she was blushing and fierce.

He knows how she feels, his own blush burning his face.

He continues onto his room, which in itself was as simple as the rest of the house. A bed, a dresser, multiple safes, and for some what may seem an inordinate amount of weapons hidden through-out not just the room but the house itself.

He wasn't really the odd one out; most in Eiswald had plenty of weapons and most carried one every day.

But he wasn't here for weapons.

He peeled off his shirt and pants then underwears, replacing them with new ones and placing the old in the hamper for later.

Clothes replaced, he prepared himself to meet Theadra once again.

 _Bingbong_.

 _'Bing bong?'_ Lukas thought curiously. Doorbell. Who?

* * *

Theadra normally wouldn't assume, especially considering it to be Lukas' home, but regardless she thought she might as well. Standing, blush dying down, Theadra went to the door and opened it.

Time shattered and the world fell apart around her, as she took in the form before her.

Scratch that, _forms_.

One of them was familiar, so painfully familiar. Jubia. Grey-ish skin-tone, slight blue to it, and eyes a wonderful blue. She got their papa's form, for sure. She had Palaven's markings on her, as did the youngling with her. The boy was only four years old, if only just barely, and he clung to his mother in this strange territory.

Jubia and her boy were dressed in Turian attire, which had become a somewhat strange sight for Theadra what with her and many other Turian citizens adoption of Terran dress.

For a long moment, the three were silent, merely staring in shock, before Theadra's heart swelled and her eyes became wet.

"Spirits...Jubia!"

"Theadra!" Jubia responded with sorrowful glee, the two launching into a soul-crushing hug of reunion. Emotions roiled through the both of them; happiness, sadness, and sheer euphoria.

The youngling beneath them, still clinging to his mother's leg, could feel his own eyes wet with tears. He didn't know this woman, but his mother had told him much about her.

As had Servius, the two opinions conflicting, but none-the-less they had them and the boy was caught between the two about this woman, Theadra. She's his aunt, but he did not know her?

Experimentally, while the two sisters sob and heave together, the boy touches Theadra's denim-bedecked leg.

She hiccups, breaking from her sister, mind awash with babblings of affection as she kneels to the boy.

"Hey- hey baby," Theadra says, smiling wide as she caresses the boy's cheek "What's your name, huh?"

"Garrus Vakarian, Ma'am," Garrus replies, snapping off a sharp salute that makes his aunt smile and laugh. Damn you, Servius, you've taught him well.

"Garrus," Theadra repeats, looking up at her sister who was all smiles in her wonderous eyes. She looks down at the boy again "A nice strong name," Theadra pats his cheek "At ease." She orders.

He does so, but in his eye is..something.

"Permission to act freely, ma'am?"

"Of course-" before she even lets the words out, Garrus has wrapped his arms around his aunt.

"It's so good to see you, Auntie Theadra," Garrus is over the moon, this much Theadra and Jubia both can tell.

Theadra laughs, a genuine and happy laugh as she hugs him back ""It's good to see you, too, sweetheart," Theadra nuzzles the young boys head, "Very good."

Theadra lifts the boy up and has him on her hip when she and Jubia hug once more "How did you come here? Travel from Palaven to Shanxi can't be cheap, especially with Terran tariffs."

"We moved to the Citadel, Servius became C-SEC," Jubia explains, which Theadra mentally smacks herself for. Of course, Servius talked of that before she defected.

"I'm just glad to have you here," Theadra smiles, "Uh- please, come in!" She hoped it was fine, this wasn't her home after all, but it's her sister!

"Theadra? Who's there?" Speak of the devil.

Jubia and Garrus look for the voice, not finding it turning their gaze at Theadra who smiled.

"Friend," Theadra whispered, Jubia raising a brow in return that told her she didn't believe fully. "Visitors, Lukas!"

Lukas rounded the corner, stopping when he took in the new people, one a child on Theadra's hip.

"Wheeere's the party?" Lukas questions, trying to keep his tone humorous.

"Lukas, this is Jubia, my sister," Theadra says, excitement evident in her voice as she introduces Jubia "Jubia, this is Lukas," The two met and shook hands, Lukas smiling a bit.

"Jubia, good to meet you," Lukas nodded his head "Welcome to my home," He looks at the child on Theadra's hip "What's yer name?"

"Garrus Vakarian!" Garrus acts tough, puffing out his chest and narrowing his eyes at Lukas who grins.

"Atta boy," Lukas chuckles "Well, like I said, welcome," Lukas motions for them to sit at the couch, which they do, and Lukas closes the door.

"Can I get you anything?" Lukas asks, looking between the three Turians.

"Just water for me, if you don't mind," Jubia smiles her best at Lukas, who smiles back.

"Can I have pop?" Garrus asks, looking between Lukas and Jubia, causing Lukas' smile to grow.

"Can he?" Lukas asks, raising a brow. It wasn't common, by any stretch, for Turians to have reactions to Human food and drink, but he wanted to be sure.

"It's late..but fine, for the occasion," Jubia bops Garrus' cheek causing him to make an adorable "Naaah" noise as he tried to escape his mother's gentle bump.

Theadra looked at Lukas over the moon, who smiled back.

"Coming right up," Lukas disappears into the kitchen.

Theadra bounces Garrus on her knee, hugging the boy close "I don't know what to say," Theadra laments, words at a loss as she smiles at her sister "How've you been this past while?" Jubia's face fell some, but she turns to Theadra putting a leg up on the couch, the other with foot planted to the floor.

"It's been tough without you, Theadra," Jubia begins, eyes cast down a bit "When the inevitable happened after the defection, I was worried. How would _you_ fare? Without me, Servius, the Hierarchy, what would happen to you?" Jubia smiled "Evidently, you prospered."

"Yes," Theadra smiles, feeling a pang of sorrow that it couldn't of happened better "At first, Mayor Flathead wanted to bulldoze our shelter," Jubia's eyes widened at that in shock.

Theadra continues, seeing her sister's shock "He's a good man, but the way he saw it we were a drain of resources. He showed us how to farm, Jubia, and the shelter has an incredible thriving farm out back now. Flathead's happy to have us and he helped us to get our citizenship in Eiswald. He's hard but fair and it's because of him we're faring so well." She knew that wasn't completely true. Flathead was adamant in the Turians knowing that they were doing well because they were doing the work, he just helped. But still, they respected him deeply for it.

"Better than him demolishing the shelter," Jubia frowns, not likely fully convinced "but I'm glad that you're doing well. Do you have a job?"

"I work in the local autos factory, I'm a riveter. Those round things you see on alot of Terran items? I put those in," Theadra smiles, proud "It's a good paying job."

"I'm glad," Jubia smiles, beaming at her sister's pride "I got a job on the Citadel, doing desk jobs and such from home so I can keep an eye on Garrus. Servius is teaching him marksmanship and grooming him to become C-SEC, although he himself is a bit of a trouble maker," Jubia grins at the boy who puffs up.

"I am not!"

"Sure," Jubia chuckles.

Lukas comes back a moment after with a glass of water and a pair of bottles. One is smaller than the other, an 8 ounce bottle and a 12 ounce bottle, of VitaPop. Handing the pop to Garrus, Lukas takes his seat across from the three.

Theadra's smile turns to him, face bright, and Lukas can't help but feel his own grow and he turned his head to Jubia.

"Sorry for the lack of proper introductions. My name's Lukas, United States 3rd Exocorps."

"Jubia Vakarian, good to meet you Lukas," Jubia nods to him and raises a brow, looking between the two of them "When did you two meet?"

Garrus was sipping his pop, careful to not spill, as he listened close.

"Eh heh..See, that's a hell of a thing," Lukas chuckles, remembering what happened those years ago "We met in a fight," Jubia looks at Lukas as though he grew another head.

"We were in a melee, after Lukas' people ambushed us," Theadra explains "Something stopped the fight from continuing, I don't know what, but it did." Jubia raises her brow at her sister now.

"Something'?" She asks.

"Was it a demon?" Asks Garrus, not realizing how right he may've been.

"No idea," Lukas scratches his chin "It may've been."

"I thought demons were hostile?" Jubia asks.

"No, not always. They can be, many are, but most can't hurt us let alone do they want to. Could've gotten tired of it all, who knows." Lukas shrugs and takes a drink "But it happened."

"And Jesse one-legged me onto the ambulance," Theadra snorts remembering the green-thumbed giant that carried her aboard "Does that man have some kind of 'ism' in him?"

"Not as far as I know," Lukas shrugs "He eats his greens!"

"I'm lost," Jubia laughs softly "Help."

"Sorry, sister," Theadra smiles with face aflush "Jesse is a medic, and a massive man. Tall as a Krogan and just as big, but gentle. Apparently he's a botanist."

"He sounds like an interesting man, atleast," Jubia nods "He helped you?"

"When the fight was ended, I was wounded. Lukas called Jesse here over and Jesse picked me up, despite how much I thrashed about," Jubia was confused again.

"When the fight was over, whoever was alive was made a P.O.W."

"Oh," Jubia's eyes widened "Is that why you-?"

"No," Theadra frowns, brows furrowing and she shakes her head as Garrus looks at her with curiosity "I've never been a good Turian, Jubia, you know that."

"But you're a good person," Lukas interrupts.

She smiles at him.

"I know."

"I wasn't denying that," Jubia says, shoulders squaring "But still."

"I defected because I wanted a new life, you know that," Theadra places her hand on her sister's own, getting Jubia's attention turned on her "and I found one."

"I know, I'm sorry," Jubia sighs before smiling and patting her sister's hand "I've missed you."

"I've missed you too, how did you know I was on Shanxi?"

"I started getting messages from here, feelers that were calling a 'Turian defector's sister' to Shanxi. I came here and went to the shelter first, with Garrus, to find you."

Theadra turned her head to Lukas, who was in mid-sip then froze in a comical pose.

"Lukas?" Theadra asks "Did you do that?"

He finishes his sip.

"...I did promise, didn't I?" Lukas shrugs "Long as it took. It may not be on the citadel for a conjugal visit, but it's something right?"

It took all of Theadra's will not to tackle and hug the man, she knew that wouldn't of gone well, but her smile went even brighter.

And the rest of the night was brighter still.


	84. Aftermath

While the Terrans were happy to have their people back and were celebrating, in Alien centers like the Citadel or the varying homeworlds, the aliens were mortified. They witnessed, bomb for bomb, the likely annihilation of an entire species (What few Batarians survived effectively were absorbed by the Terrans. The status of their species, unknown) and the utter destruction of Khar'Shan, now a scorched ruin of what once was a thriving planet turned hive.

The Terrans were, when not avoided, met with fear and suspicion. Populations of aliens protested the way the Terrans carried out the Extermination of Khar'Shan, rioting against the new aliens while the Terrans-

they smiled.

They'd smile, or nod, or shrug, and say "That's what happens."

Although it was obvious they didn't like it either, they seemed to hold no sorrow.

"How could you stand for your species to annihilate another?" Asked a reporter, camera rolling on a Terran gun merchant.

"It helps me sleep at night knowing there isn't a horde of demons that got themselves a beach head, that's why," The merchant shrugged, cleaning the receiver of a 1911 "Why should I care?"

"Your people killed billions!"

"More than that," the merchant corrected, glancing up "If you count the demons."

"It doesn't matter, your people may've caused an extinction of an entire people," the reporter stressed, trying to get a reaction out of the man.

"I know that and it's regrettable, if only for the enslaved caste. The slavers, I don't care. They can burn in hell for all I care, every one of them. Most likely are, what with what they were doing."

"You're mad," the reporter breaths, eyes widening "Khar'Shan is gone."

"You can still collect its spacerocks if you want,"

* * *

There was a ward-wide stunned silence as many looked over the footage again and again, watching the exact moment Khar'Shan erupted under the horrid bombardment. Ship after ship, large and small, belched plasma as their guns thundered and sent multi-ton slugs at the infected planet. Silverflame shells found pockets of deep demonic infection and spread through the sick like flame through gas soaked paper.

Finally, there it was. The core, the heart, of the infection, and when a Silverflame canister hit it, Khar'Shan was done for. The magical material raced through the veins of Ichor and upon finding the center, Khar'Shan split apart as the muscle that held it together finally split. All listening could hear inside their heads an awful scream, one that would haunt them.

Khar'Shan, after that, was gone. There was nothing left but floating rock and the fading remains of its core.

The Terran fleet turned and with rapid succession, left the system.

Many would rewatch that scene, unbelieving of the carnage, and if the Terrans' attitude was anything to go by: They'd do it again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

"Was there no other way," Tevos asked, voice low and sad. She hated the Batarian slavers, everyone did, but even this was too far. "There had to be!"

"Councilor, I assure you, I wish there had been. If there was, we'd of taken that over Exterminatus any day of the week and done it happily," answered a Terran councilor, whose face was a mask of gentle sorrow "But there wasn't. If the infection had just been on the surface, like a scab, we'd of just cleaned that up and beaten the Batarian government with superior firepower and tactics."

Tevos rubbed her face tiredly, the shit storm that the Exterminatus had caused was one for the ages and so many feared the Terrans now they wondered what could be done should anyone go to war.

"The Batarians, what about their species?"

"There are enough Batarians in Terran space, all of them past slaves, to assure the survival of their species. It will be rocky, but they'll make it."

"And in the Traverse?" Tevos frowned, brows furrowed "They won't take their homeworld dying easily, Councilor," Tevos warned "There's blood on the horizon, I can assure you."

"Is that a threat, Councilor?" The Terran's tone was one of warning.

Tevos shook her head "No, it's a prediction. They'll want your heads for what you did."

"Let them come. They'll fall as the rest of them did."

* * *

The Turians were scared straight by the Terran bombardments of Khar'Shan and in response, knew they had to do something. After much debate and council, the Turian Hierarchy decided on drastic measures should the same fate as Khar'Shan ever happen to one of their planets, or happen to another race's planets: Asteroid Bombardment.

Their non-magical response to Exterminatus; lash an asteroid to a tractor beam and send it rocketing after the target planet. Only to be used in extreme cases of demonic infestation.

Speaking of..

Turians were rapidly converting to Faith, mostly Turian but a great amount of which turned to _Terran_ faiths as well, with places of worship opening up on Palaven and the varying colonies, to say nothing of the Turians that became Terran citizens.

An alarming shift for the Turians: They have to deal with an enemy that they can't see, hear, or feel until it's too late.

* * *

The Asari, too, were dealing with this new threat with worry. The Asari Republics were in no better shape than the Hierarchy when it came to fear over demonic threat (and Terran retribution should the first overtake them) and many were up in arms about the annihilation of Khar'Shan.

While most could (tentatively) agree that the Genophage was necessary to halt Krogan numbers, most didn't want to deal with the reality of it. Why would they? It was too terrible to deal with.

The Rachni, too, while a sentient species, were a massive threat to the galaxy and as such were dealt with accordingly!

The Batarians?

...

The Batarians were a threat, a menace, no doubt, but to go to war with them was to go to war with the rest of Non-Council space, even if only because the Batarians could pay them. That, in and of itself, was a frightening thing. The Batarians, normally, were no threat themselves, they were a laughing stock. What they had behind them was scary.

And the Terrans just wiped them out without a thought.

Even now, the Terrans set up colonies closing in on the Traverse, with full military bases present, just a beacon to the wretched hives in that lawless space.

* * *

The Salarians were fearful of the Terran bombardments, but were hard at work at figuring out Terran magic.

 _How_ to figure out Terran magic.

Who, what, when, where, why?

They didn't know either.

None of it made sense, there was just nothing. A mage puts his hands together and there's an effect. Fire, ice, lightning, earth, healing, whatever, it just...appeared?

That makes no sense, nature says no!

But the Terrans say yes.

 _How_.


	85. Insight: Talk shop

When Jubia and Garrus left for the night, Theadra found herself over the moon and impacting Luna. She finally met her sister and her nephew, after four years of being seperated. Lukas found himself wrapped in a tight hug, one he returned with a smile patting Theadra's back softly as she nuzzles his neck. "Thank you," She whispers, too happy to be any louder "thank you so much."

"I did say I'd find a way, right?" Admittedly, that was quite some time ago, but he did indeed say he would "So I did!"

"You did more than I can explain, Lukas," Theadra pulls away, arms still wrapped around his midsection "I got to see my sister and my nephew again, I never thought that'd happen, what with my defection."

"But it did."

"But it did," Theadra smiles "Thank you so much."

"Welcome," Lukas smiles "Was it everything you wished for?"

"And more," She nods "Garrus is gonna be a handful, I think."

"Kid's likely to be a little hellraiser," Lukas snorts "May grow to be a bad Turian."

"May run in the family," Theadra chuckles softly.

"Mhmm, but it makes good people for the most part."

Theadra's smile was wide, beaming, and Lukas found he could watch that smile and be content for longer than he could've thought. He was calm.

Theadra found herself in a similar position, rubbing Lukas' back and sides (as that's as far as her arms could reach around him) and found herself content.

Lukas, however, was the one to (reluctantly) pull away, and gave a slight clear of the throat doing so.

"I, uh..Wanted to ask you something."

"Oh?" Theadra resisted frowning when he pulled away "What is it?"

"I'm going home, to Earth, in the next couple of days. I'm going to be there a while, but I was wondering if when I come back if you'd like to, maybe, grab a bite to eat or something?"

Theadra chuckles "That sounds like you're asking me on a date," She crosses her arms, leaning on one hip and raising a brow.

"I guess I kind of am," Lukas smiles all bashful "What do you think?"

"I think I'm going to miss you when you leave, but I'd be glad to."

* * *

The next day, in between getting his things together, Lukas was out and about in the town square. The square itself was paved with quikrete, taking a slightly yellow/beige tone to its color. In the square were planters of flowers, a few banks of trees, and little else in the way of decoration. There were benches for sitting, quiet places to let worries fade and fall.

There, Lukas found a man he'd thought already'd departed for Terra.

"Jesse?" the man looked up from reading his book, which Lukas saw was about Botany, and smiled when he lay eyes on Lukas.

"Good to see you, Lukas," Jesse placed his bookmark, a thing of thin shatter-proof glass encasing a stick of gold, into the book and folded it shut "I'd of thought you went for Terra already."

"You, too. I leave tomorrow."

"Same. Ship?"

" _Lucy Morningstar_."

"Ha!"

Lukas chuckled, he knew exactly what the name was "I know, I thought the same thing."

"What're you heading for Terra for? Family?" Jesse asks, crossing his arms. Sitting at the bench, Jesse and Lukas are almost eye-level to eachother.

"Family, yeah," Lukas nods in affirmative "Back to Illinois."

"I'm heading back to Colorado," Jesse smiles "Going to rejoin the State Militia."

"Re-join? How old are you? you have to be 18 to join, don't you?"

"In Illinois, it's 18. Colorado it's 15. I joined at 13."

"How old are you, anyway?"

"23. Joined the US Military at 19."

"Fuck I'm old," Lukas groans and rubs his face tiredly, making Jesse laugh a deep, bellowing laugh. "What did you do? Fetch the beer?"

"I was a medic-in-training, actually," Jesse chuckles at the joke "Mother was a medic, dad was the apothecary. He's where I got my love of botany from."

"Medic-in-training, what the hell did you do? Was there really something so important to have a 13 year old?" Lukas grins good naturedly.

Jesse smiles "Believe me, the shit that crawls out of those woods would make your skin crawl."

"I'm not sure I wanna ask," Lukas shudders; he knows too well that things come from the dark on Terra. One of the reasons the states have Militias.

"No, you don't."

"What about the military? You get let off?"

Jesse nods "Yes," he frowns and leans back against the bench "It wasn't an easy decision, though. Much as these past few years have been a special hell, I've loved my time in. I just need to go home. If my country needs me again, I'll re-join."

"I don't know if I want to retire yet," Lukas shakes his head "I almost died on Khar'Shan, but I've almost died a few times elsewhere too."

"It depends on what you have your priorities on," Jesse smiles "I noticed you and Theadra getting close."

"Stalker?"

"Not when it's obvious."

* * *

The thing that the Terrans were most known for, aside from their sheer uncaring attitude, was their work ethic. Not just that of adults, but also of their _children_. Most Terran children were raised with some form of physical education, wether it be gym or shop class or any of the other varying subjects taught, and were as active outside of school as they were in. Children were, to an extent, left to their own devices. They'd stay out until night and be back at dark covered in dirt and bruises and nicks of the day.

And they'd just keep at it.

Parents were stern but fair and it wasn't uncommon for a child to call their father 'Sir' or mother 'Ma'am', infact it was more uncommon to _not_ hear it.

Children working hard, playing hard, and living with all their might while their parents kept a watchful eye on them, only interfering should the need arise.

It was a happy thing, and one that made the newest visitor a darker shade of blue in envy.

"What do you call this class?" Asks the husky voiced matriarch, overlooking the children using screwdrivers, hammers, and nails to put together planks of wood. What were they making? She didn't know.

"Shop class," responds the Terran teacher, a black woman, wearing a leather apron over a white shirt "Kids start out working wood, then move onto leather, and later metals and metalwork. There're also classes for gardening and taking care of food plants." She seemed proud of the kids in her care, a smile on her face as she watched the kids work.

"Start 'em young, huh?" the matriarch says with a lopsided smile, pride filling her belly as well, she just couldn't help it "That's a good attitude to have."

"If they don't take shop, they learn elsewhere, mostly family. Either way, most kids here learn how to use a hammer and nail."

"Teach them the value of work," the Matriarch breaths, mind wondering how the Asari could be if they did the same. It was a glorious image.

"Absolutely," the teacher nods, as if trying to teach the matriarch a lesson herself "Nothing's handed to you, you get it with your own two hands and work."

"We need to start teaching them this," the Matriarch nods firmly "Our children, rather than what we do now."

"It can happen if enough see," the teacher nods, helping a child to fix their planks together "and if enough start doing."

Words to live by, the Matriarch said her thanks and goodbyes to the children (who still weren't used to seeing aliens), whom were sad to see her go, and was out for her next target.

The bar!

Aethyta smiled, now was the time to mull over what she'd learned over some Terran alcohol. Maybe she could get some exported to Illium.

* * *

(It's time I start setting the motions for ME1.)


	86. A pale horse

The Terrans. The very _word_ stained his tongue, burned his mouth, and made his scales itch. He hated them. Hated what they'd done to his people, to the entire _galaxy_ now! He'd fix it. Make everything right again, as it should be. Make the Terrans pay for what they'd done.

So it was, lurking in the blackness and frozen expanse of the void, he was here, in what had once upon a time been Khar'Shan. Dead and cold, Khar'Shan's wreckage was something most regarded as a harbinger, a call from the future that everything was to be as it was now.

Not if he had anything to do about it.

He was alone, he would find what would set it right on his own. He had others, loved ones, helping him, but this he would do with his own hands.

To grow a better future, one must first blacken their hands with the soil.

The stones, the sick flesh encrusted rock of the Batarian homeworld now turned grey and dead and fossilized by the Silverflame and endless bombardment of the Terran navy.

They left a smudge, a sick streak, wherever they went and he hated it.

To grow a better future, one without the Terrans, Desolas had to find something.

Something more ancient than all of them.

* * *

There, on the planet of Jartar, was a crater. A deep, wide thing, where at the bottom something pulled him forth. He'd been fed information from Batarian informants for some time. Not always of their choosing, but he didn't care for their consent in the matter. Duty at all costs, so it was and will be.

The thing that made the crater, a huge ship that the Batarians prior to the war with the Terrans, were about to start investigating. Their demonic host put an end to that and the Terrans put an end to them in totality.

But there was something alive down there. He could feel it, pulling at him, inviting him.

 _Come to me_

Desolas answered.

Pushing the ship to fly to the crater, Desolas was without fear. For he was certain his future lay there, awaiting.

* * *

The flight was rocky, as re-entry was still something that would rattle many craft, but holding fast to his restraints Desolas steeled himself for the torrent of hurricane-like jostling that he and his craft endured. Every nanosecond drew him closer and closer to his target, the Leviathan that rest down below. The crater was utterly massive, dwarfing Desolas' craft by leagues, and the darkness here was legendary, bordering on unnatural, as though a black hole rest down there.

With how he was being drawn in, that wouldn't seem too far from truth if he held an irrational mind.

The transition between Jatar and the Leviathan's...envelope? Whatever it was, it was subtle, almost unnoticable, save for a warm sort of sheet that spread over Desolas' mind, putting his roiling thoughts at ease.

 _You come here in search of hope_

"I do," Desolas answers to the void, barely aware that his craft was no longer moving.

 _You search for means to fight_

"I do!'

 _Why_

 _"_ The galaxy is wrong, the Terrans, they've stained it! They're spreading like a virus, they need to be stopped!'

 _And they will. Do you have what it takes to stop them?_

"Yes!"

 _No, you don't._

Desolas started and his face, once hopeful, took on an expression of fury.

 _But you will._

Images flooded his mind, Terran worlds burned and died at the hand of millions of billions of forms, puppets, commanded by him. A galaxy set straight again.

If Desolas had done his homework on Terran mythology, perhaps he'd of seen himself on the pale horse as hell rode with him.

 _This and more will be your purpose._

It was obvious that there was a string attached, as Desolas frowned when the image faded from his mind "What do I have to do?"

 _You will be my servant, my eyes and ears and hands where I cannot follow. To see your justice done, you will do this. You will be with one of mine._

"You have but to ask," said Desolas like a good servant.

 _Go then. Serve me. Set things right once again._

* * *

In just 30 years, the Terrans changed a grand amount of the galaxy at large. The Asari, long-lived and somewhat slow to adopt an entire change, were starting to teach the younger generations to work rather than dance, to put their time into labor rather than the club. It was a slow process, but it was working. While the Terrans had them beat by a lightyear, even they had to admit a sense of pride in that they had inspired such a change in such a long-lived race.

The Turians similarly were changing under Terran influence. The two species had many similarities, not the least of which being there was once upon a time a civilization that was so painfully similar to the Turians it made their scales itch. Even 'Turian' sounded like 'Centurion' of ancient Rome. The Turians began adopting more Terran lines in their make and model of ship and armor, with harder edges, slightly more blocky, and more utilitarian than pretty. Much as Turian weapons were, anyway, they were a very spartan people.

The Salarians had been trying for those 30 years to understand magic and, amazingly, they were having success! Magic was something that couldn't be scientifically understood, not really. It made no sense, the laws of physics said no, but magic said "Fuck the rules". For a scientific race, this made no sense. When finally they began to let go, atleast in part, of needing to _explain it,_ they were getting results. While even a Terran novice would call it low level magic, the fact that they could affect the environment by wanting it to happen, imagining it, and then having the mental willpower to do it, was a hellfire of epic proportions.

With the veil shattered, as well, there were new organizations borne inspired by the Blackwatch, or even outright _alien chapters_ of the Blackwatch under their employ. Dealing with local superstitions, legends, and myths rather than Terran, the things that went bump in the night were if not eradicated, controlled or flushed away.

On Terra, with the people becoming more comfy, more information was steadily being released.

Creatures hunted the forests, the roads and skies of Terra that seemed unnatural, yet lived as any beast does. Basilisks in the deep, hot forests of South America, Jersey Devils in the canopies of the eastern seaboard, Krampus hunting the rooftops of Germany, and so many others. But the Terrans regarded them as normal, if worrying.

Bounties were put out for creatures that either grew too numerous or were too dangerous. Where neither the GAPA or the Blackwatch could get to them, it was up to local militia to handle it. After all, neither organization was omnipotent nor omniscient.

The Quarians were thriving on Zeek, growing from 17 million to closing on 25 million, now. Farms were extensive and were growing mostly dextro food, but in order to supplement their income some would grow Levo foods for humans to eat. While still _slightly_ uncomfortable with Mechanoids, they'd grown accustom to the synthetics' presence and welcomed their help when offered.

Many Quarians still went on pilgrimages, however with the lack of need for a Migrant Fleet anymore it was _much_ more symbolic than ever before. The Quarians, now, were more concerned with growing their new home and replenishing their numbers than anything else. But still, some went on pilgrimages at their 18th birthday.

There were no small number of Quarians that became Terran citizens, many of which joined the armed forces, to lend their expertise to their saviors.

As well, Krogan were making up a large number of Terran alien citizenry. Male and female, they flocked to the Alliances territory for a life better than a hired gun. The Terrans, being unfamiliar with the Krogan biology (and with no small amount of pragmatic worry) had not done anything about the Genophage, although they were attempting to lessen its effects some. It'd worked to a degree, there were more _living_ Krogan children than there had been in some time.

What remained of the Batarian race after Khar'Shan's destruction were allowed a small colony on a world in between the core territory and the frontier of Terran territory, protected but not close. 26 million Batarians, from a world of billions, would save the race from utter extinction. But the loss of home was something they'd remember, and mourn, forever. Most Batarians were, once upon a time, slaves. Those that were slavers were executed.

Terran territory had grown, and as was learned by the aliens unfamiliar: When settling territory, the nations and alliances that made up Terra had one hell of a way of doing it.

They'd send frontiersmen to colonize, who would then spread out across a track of land and settle territory. But when two sides met, more often than not, it was something of a free-for-all. Usually, with armed conflict between frontiersmen of different nations. While frontiersmen of a nation would work together, frontiersmen of two nations often didn't. Allied though they were, there was money and land on the line; frontiersmen got first dibs before anyone else.

Surprisingly, this didn't spark wars on Terra. It was just an accepted way of life.

For those aliens on the forefront of this new frontier, they learned quick: Speak softly and carry a big stick, because someone else wants your land.


	87. Dawn of a new age

"You Terrans have been a serious pain in my neck these past years," Tevos says as she pours out a glass of Asari wine for herself and her guest, a Councilor of Terra "And the source of my worst headaches." She corks the bottle and hands the clear glass to her guest, who takes it with a slightly bowed head. Her guest wears surprisingly opulent clothes for Terrans, who outside of some larger circles tend for the utilitarian. Burgundy silk slashed with darker stripes of red, studded with gold buttons along either side of the breast. The leather sewn to certain parts of the clothing, such as the shoulders, elbows, and on some parts of his chest, is something she can't place. Even after research into Terran clothing and the nature of their attire, this seemed to be nothing she could place.

Durable, obviously, but light and not weighing on the wearer. The texture was almost rocky in comparison to the burgundy silk, which she made a mental note of.

"Oh I'm aware and I'm afraid there's many more headaches to come," Tevos made an undiplomatic groan, making the Terran smile "I'm sure we'll consider being gentle."

"I've heard that before," Tevos jokes, earning an honest chuckle from the Human for her troubles "What is it you're going to hurt me with tonight?"

"Jump right into it?" The councilor asks, taking a sip of the wine and thusly having to suppress his brows firing skyward. He actually liked the wine.

"Get it over with, what's the Terran phrase? 'Think of England?'"

The Terrans laugh rumbled in her chest as he took another drink "Oh God, that's quality!" The Terran smiles "Alright, you asked for it. You're obviously sitting, so no bother asking." The Terran took a deep breath while Tevos lightly gripped the arm of her chair.

"The Council of Terra has deemed it necessary for me to tell you, since this will affect _all_ , we're curing the Genophage. Somewhat."

The room froze, time seemed to still, and Tevos couldn't hide the shock in her face.

"...What?" Tevos breathed "What!?" She says louder, glass creaking in her grip "What are you thinking!? Curing the Krogan of the Genophage? They'll just repeat their mistakes before! Then what will you do?"

"We'll eradicate them," the Councilor says bluntly "But they'll at least die a free people. A living people. A people that had a chance. Besides, I did say 'Somewhat' did I not? We're not totally curing them and we're editing this crime against Sapience so it isn't such a dreadful disease."

"What do you mean 'editing it'?" Tevos' tone of shock stays in her throat, both at the gall of the Terrans to cure the _Krogan_ and also to be so blunt as to outright kill them if they should act out. The kindness and joking attitude put up against the brutal reality that the Terrans are fully prepared to kill..just about everyone else, it seemed, frightened Tevos, but she resolved to use the information to her and the Asaris advantage.

"Rather than the children dying in stillbirth, the pregnancy simply won't take. No more dead babies, less demoralized parents. While still a crime against Sapient life that we, Terra, cannot forgive, but it is an understandable crime. Perhaps better than what we would've done."

"Exterminatus."

"You're learning," the Terran smiled the coldest smile she' seen in some time "That's good." The Terran's smile fell "Councilor Tevos, please understand. We Terrans, we don't want to exterminate anybody. If we did, we'd of wiped the Quarians out in their junk fleet and watched the pods blink out of resources. We'd of just exterminated any Krogan that came to our borders. We'd of gone from Shanxi to Palaven and her colonies. We'd of gone for Sur'Kesh. We'd of gone for Thessia."

Tevos' breath hitched in her throat at that, her mind burned with the images of entire worlds falling to Terran extermination fleets, peoples wiped out in months, years..

"But we don't. We'll work with you as much as you will us, we want peace. But if someone or something threatens the safety of our people, of our very existence, we'll fight tooth and nail. Assuming we win and the enemy keeps fighting, we'll snuff them out to the last."

"The Krogan know this, Madame Councilor, and despite their most common profession will pick up a gardening hoe, drive a tractor, or a chemistry beaker fairly quickly if given the chance. You can search on the Extranet, you'll see it in droves and spades."

"The Krogan breed out of control, how are you going to control that?"

"Their birth rates under the new Genophage will be severely reduced, Councilor, and because of that they won't give birth to massive clutches of eggs as they did pre-genophage. The Krogan are, like the Quarians, going to be given a colony world we're not interested in and allowed to grow up, but pay us for the planet and with certain taxes in place."

"Your Terraforming magic certainly helps with the amount of worlds you have at hand," Tevos says with a shake of the head, no small amount of jealously in her tone.

"Indeed, are your people not learning magic?"

"It is a slow process but it is snowballing, yes. It will be some time before we match your level of magical skill, but we hope to have some form of magic of our own."

"Good. Now that the Veil's lifted for you, you're going to need magic to defend yourselves."

"Back to the Genophage," Tevos leaned forward, setting her glass on the table next to her and focusing her gaze firmly on the Terran who straightened up in the seat.

"How do you know it's even going to work?"

"Our Alchemists and scientists are working with the Krogan to fix the problem, I'm here to warn you that it's on the cusp of release."

"You're just going to restart the Krogan Rebellions!"

"They won't have the number they did then, did you not listen?" the Terran huffed "And if they do try to rebel or tear us or, God forbid, _you_ down, we can take care of them. Or you can. Once they're out of our territory they're not our responsibility."

* * *

It was the biggest hammer that Rael'Zorah had ever seen that wasn't in the hands of a Krogan. The beast of a Human swung it around to his side and brought it back, then in a mighty swing brought the huge hammer down on the receptacle. Each strike made the pentacle etched into its surface glow with the corresponding elements of the stars quadrants: The top quadrant represented spirit, the left-most represented air, lower left represented earth which glowed a wondrous green, the lower right represented fire, and the right-most represented water.

With another mighty swing, the receptacle was hammered firmly into the ground and the effect was immediate. The ground thumped a number of three, each one more brutal than the next, coming in bursts of three.

"Shit!" Rael stumbled and caught himself on the mighty glacier that was the Terramancer. The beast of a man watched, rooted to the ground it seemed as his hammer rest on the floor. The waves continued, Rael's feet vibrated and felt numb, nearby Quarians apparently felt it too because they had to hold on tight to whatever was bolted to the floor!

Finally, the sound of the world seemed drained as if drawn by vacuum and Rael could feel his teeth vibrate. He clenched them together, eyes screwed shut as he prayed for the experience to finally stop.

It did. Feeling a massive hand hold onto his back, a wave overcame the area and took the unready off their feet (Rael felt his own fly behind him, the Terramancer alone being what kept him from flying away) as finally the shock stopped.

Rael was numb, his feet were shaking and his hands grasped at the Terramancer for dear life as he watched the earth beneath his feet begin to change!

The soil seemed to hiss as it was changed, steam rising from it very gently but even the hissing and steam ended.

In the distance, booms and rumbles could be heard and felt. Other Terramancers.

"Give it a week and you will be able to plant your food." The voice was a low rumble, slow as though the owner was in slow motion himself. Rael'Zorah looked up at the Terramancer whose head slowly turned downward "You will have a fertile field here, soon enough."

"What _was_ that?" Rael asked incredulous.

"The world was accepting the magics I inscribed into the receptacle, the Terragel inside is balanced to your biology. Dextro-amino. You will grow dextro food in these fields."

"That's incredible!"

"It's magic," the Terramancer smiled slightly and with an expected slowness to his pace, walked away from the site.

Rael stared down at the pentagram that glowed below him and marveled as the magic took effect right in front of him.

But, a pang of sorrow rang inside him.

This was a home, but was not truly home.

Not for him.

This, this is a stepping stone.

* * *

After the Batarian war, many of those in the military retired. Even respected captains like Hannah Shepard and Logan Rowland ended up retiring, heading home for Terra.

"Been one hell of a ride," Logan groans, laying back in the grand lounge of the space port "Hell of a past few years."

"You were first contact, right?" Hannah asks

"That's right," Logan nods his head "First to meet the Turians, claimed first blood, and first to retreat from Shanxi with Mercy." That _still_ made Logan's mouth sour, a look of disdain coming over his features "At Abbot's demand, but still."

"Rather lose Shanxi temporarily than lose Mercy," Hannah shrugged "Besides, you and the rest lived. Shanxi's ours again and all!"

"Christ, you sound just like the old man."

"I think I missed my calling as an Army general, then!" Hannah grinned when Logan groaned and exhaled 'God help me!'

"I don't think I could deal with _both_ of you badgering me."

"It kept you alive, didn't it?" Hannah smiles, turning her head and raising her brow, watching Logan slump in on himself "You survived."

"I did," Logan nods, staring at the cieling "I did indeed, didn't I." He turns his gaze down to Hannah "So did you."

"I did indeed," Hannah echoes.

"Do you have any plans later?" Logan asks, a goofy smile he couldn't keep from his face overcoming him.

"Aw, you sound like a highschool boy."

"Worth a shot," Logan shrugs.

"Depends on what _you_ have planned."

* * *

Children. After the war, many eyes were opened and many lives that weren't lost were changed. Those who retired from the military wanted little more than to be with family, and many to start some of their own.

Hannah and Logan, two retired Admirals, two veterans, were some of those that wanted the latter. To start a family of their own.

So it was, Hannah and Logan with some luck, effort, and some private prayer, were told by their doctor that they were pregnant.

With twins.

With the money from retirement, and some good old Terran attitude, they made themselves a fine home with a fair tract of land for gardening and perhaps some livestock, just outside a big Terran city.

There, they raised their children John and Jane Shepard. John inherited Logan's brown hair while Jane inherited Hannah's bright Blonde hair and got her eyes with it.

The two proved to be thick as thieves, adventurous and as hard headed as any Terran could be. Always at one anothers' side, rarely separating for very long.

* * *

John and Jane run as fast as their little legs will take them, barely outmatching the playful stride of their father who runs after them bent down, arms extended with a playful roar in his maw.

"Raaawwwhhh!"

"Naaaah!" Jane squeals laughing as Logan's hands grab at them, John's babbling laughter growing more frantic as Logan nears ever closer.

"C'mere!" Logan lurches forward suddenly and snatches the twins up, twisting around and falling on his rump using his body to brace the kids against the impact.

They barely felt a thing, squeals of laughter erupting as they struggled against their fathers grip "Papaaaa," Jane struggled "Naah!"

"Mine," Logan smiled, bumping his chin against his daughter's head while miming biting with 'RarRarRar' accompanying it, making the girl giggle and pat his bearded face.

"Sneak attack!" John did his best to wrap his arms around his father's neck, earning a 'Gack!' in response.

"Curses!"

"Need help, Logan?" The voice reaches their ears, just barely, as the sound of squeals and 'Gack' drowns out most of it, but his one free eye (the other blocked by John's head) opens and takes in Hannah's form, a pair of denim jeans and a white shirt with her hair tied back in a ponytail.

"Reinforcements!"

Jane squeals when Hannah wraps her arms around the girl and pulls her up, leaving Logan to focus on his boy who redoubles his efforts, wrestling his father in the way only a Shepard could!

"Oof!" Logan feigns pain as John thumps his little fists into his father's chest, growling the whole way through.

"I got you, dad!" John declares early, victory so close yet so far away once Logan wraps his arms around the boy and playfully snarls into the boys neck, making him giggle and bunch up "Aaaah!"

"Is that right? Ears, ears!" The squeals continued as Logan put his teeth (covered by his lips) on the boys ear, making his facial hair tickle the boy further.

"Okay, boys, time to get up," Hannah's smile is a mile wide "I got roast cooking!"

"Roast!" Logan and John say in unison.

Feast time! Time to feast. Eat and drink, too.

* * *

The Terrans did something..incredible.

A Turian walks down the dark hall, cradling in his arms as though he would a baby a massive book. A _truly_ massive, lashed in iron and splashed with some kind of oils, yet somehow the book seemed almost pristine. At the end of the hall awaits the councilors, Tevos seemed tired as it wasn't long after the visit of the Terran councilman.

Valern seemed excited, finally the Blackwatch saw fit to part with some of their magical tomes.

Sparatus held his hands behind him, a posture of total confidence to him belying his anxiousness to see the tome.

Around them was a cadre of elite Spectres, one of which was Saren Arterius, whom has a similar stance of confidence to him but his was undercut with a dash of worry.

Those Terrans, crafty in their own brutal way, who knows if this may be a trap?

The room is as dark as the hall, the Spectres hidden in the shadows. Many of them wielded new, unfamiliar, two-stage weapons that used gunpowder charges to propel a bullet and the rail systems present in all non-Terran weapons to propel the projectile even further.

Better safe than sorry, they thought.

The room practically reeks of anxiousness, concern, and excitement. The tome gives off a gentle glow from the pentacle inscribed into its cover, buried under the iron bars that keep it locked from the outside world.

From the Turians wrist hangs a key that looks like something out of a fantasy novel, heavy and with a diamond shaped hole hammered through the handle with a leather strap bolted together in a handle.

The Turian finally gets to the room and, with a grunt of effort, lays the tome down gently as he can. It still makes a resounding thud, even though the distance to the table was minuscule.

"The Blackwatch mage gave me a key to go with it, and did so with a warning." The Turian reports officially, apprehension obvious.

"What warning?"

"To always carry Iron with us, wether as a medallion or token. Always. Something about..'Fair folk'."

"Then we'll listen," Valern nods brooking no argument "If the Terrans deem it so important then we will do as they say in this field."

"They told me they hoped that would be the answer, so they gave me chunks of iron." The iron pieces were lain out before the Councilors, each of them with a hole bored through with a strap of leather wrapped in a wring.

 _Wear it like a necklace_ , the intent was obvious.

The Councilors gave no argument, as Valern said, and put the iron medallions on.

"Open it," Sparatus ordered.

The Turian nodded and, after retrieving a key of iron, inserted it into the lock mechanism with a truly resounding _clack_.

"Open it," Sparatus ordered again, anxious.

The Turian turned the key, with difficulty, and the latch hit the table like a clap of thunder.

"Open it." Sparatus said a final time.

The book was opened with a creak of leather, another pentacle dyed into the parchment of the first page.

When it opened, the room rumbled and the lights dimmed even more, shaking the Councilors slightly. When finally it was done, the lights blared brighter, then calmed.

The book sat there, inanimate, yet such a presence in the room.

"This is the beginning of a new age, isn't it?" Tevos stares at the book, which pulses gently with magical power.

 _'This is the beginning of the end, isn't it?'_ Saren thinks to himself, staring at the book like the councilor. But for him, it isn't wonder that fills him.

 _It's dread._

* * *

John grabs the metal handle and pulls it, taking the connecting hitch and latching it to the trailer with a light grunt. Testing the connection, he pats the metal surface and backs off giving a thumbs up to the driver of the tractor who nods and rumbles along, the diesel engine roaring to life.

The farm smelled of dung, as was expected, and the smell of dry corn mixed in with it. Along with a dozen other smells, John was finding himself getting rather used to it.

15 years old and the boy was working hard, already on his way to the next tractor to connect a grain trailer.

"Ingowa!" The patriarch of the family roared and John quickened his pace: 'Ingowa' was his way of saying 'Get moving!' and John knew to get moving. For one, he wouldn't get paid if he didn't move and two, the man was scary as sin!

...

Jane was doing an easier job, although that didn't mean the farmer took it easy on her. Her job, currently, was to get the eggs from the coop and handing it to another, albeit permanent, farmhand. Easy enough, although some of the chickens _could_ get curious and start crowding her which was always fun trying to dodge the minefield of ladies while also trying to avoid having them shit on her boots.

"Eggs!" Jane announces, setting the baskets down for the farmhand to retrieve.

"Good job! There's another coop you need to hit up, you're getting us plenty of eggs."

"Got it!"

Jane gives a thumbs up, lightly jogging her way to the next coop when she catches sight of John "Hey, John! Working hard or hardly working?"

John responds by making an 'Up yours!' motion while the call for 'Ingowa!' rings out again, and off John fucked to his next chore.

Jane smiles.

Then the most ungodly sound rang out, the sound of an angry rooster and one that Jane saw when she jerked her head was coming _right for her_.

"Shit! Why's it chasing me?" Jane tore off away from the angry avian and, much to her chagrin, could hear laughing.

"Bagawk! Bagawk!" The rooster flapped its wings as it chased like a rex outta hell.

When Jane came to an obstacle, she felt little choice but to slap her back into it and fell to her rump.

The rooster came right up to her, stepping between her legs and fixing one of its angry eyes on hers.

"Please _go away_ ," Jane begged the bird.

It held the gaze for a bit, then backed off a step, turned around...and shit directly on her boots. A nice pile of oat nasty for her feet.

"God I hate you things, sometimes," Jane whispers, shutting up when the rooster suddenly turned around with a quickness and fixed his glare on her.

"I didn't say anything!"

* * *

John and Jane at 16 were about to do something important. While seemingly alone in the woods, they stalked. The weather was perfect, relatively speaking.

Cold, frost lightly coating the trees, and the dew dampening the sound of their feet on the leaves. Their rifles were slung over their backs, revolvers in their belts, each carrying a long knife with a knuckleduster guard.

For three days they'd been out here, in this crisp cold forest, stalking a massive animal. A true beast of the forest, yet it wasn't the antler adorned lords of the forest many would expect.

With a commission from the GAPA, they were out here.

"Find it, kill it, and its nest. You've got the tags, we can't have an incursion in the forest."

John and Jane stalked through the forest, thick coats of leather lined with fur. Faces covered with a mask of the same material, keeping them warm, they saw their quarry out in the distance. Under their coats, a chainmail shirt of mithril guarded their bodies.

They knew that fairly nearby was their father, Logan. But, they'd do this alone if possible.

John turned his head to the right, making sure Jane was there with him.

She gave an 'A-Ok' sign with her hand.

Time to move.

'Forward,' John signaled with his hand.

So they did, moving forth slowly.

The _smell_ got to them before anything else.

 _'Heaven help me'_ , John thought, grimacing under his mask at the stink of rot.

 _'Been eating a lot, beautiful?'_ Jane thought, similar expression under her mask.

They were both briefed extensively on _what_ they were hunting, what it ate, etc.

When they got closer, they could see their quarry moving around in a cave dug into the mountain.

Its hide was green, a deep forest color, with splatters of brown and beige like camouflage applied to a tank. Speaking of, it was about the size. A long body which even from afar was rippling with muscle and killer intent. Scales like armor, like that worn by the ancients, lightly rippled with the body as each movement just made the Shepard twins' eyes widen bit by bit.

At the front of the beasts body was a fairly long, agile, and powerful neck topped by a head that wouldn't of been out of place on a T. Rex. At each of the four limbs, the feet were more like hands with powerful fingers and claws, while the back pair seemed more like the digitigrade feet of a dinosaur.

John and Jane were being sent to hunt a Drake.

A wingless cousin to the mighty Dragon, drakes are more adaptable to the varying environments of the world. Capable of creating new scales and shedding the old set to camouflage to their environment. Namely, a forest descending from winter.

John and Jane readied their rifles and, with their scopes, watched what the Drake was doing.

"It got a meal," Jane notes with a whisper "Looks like a doe." Indeed, the animal was dead-eyed and split from chin to groin, entrails spilled and being swallowed by the beast. Drakes, and Dragons, could eat practically anything. Whatever couldn't be digested was sent to another 'stomach' to be broken down and turned into a potent weapon.

"That's what the GAPA is concerned about. Individuals are fine, but if the Drake finds a mate, then an entire clutch would be dangerous." John nods, a gentle whisper leaving his lips.

"Then let's see if we can't take care of this thing _before_ it manages to get one. In the left eye?"

"On your go, Jane," John nods.

The two sight in on the beasts eye, a fairly large orange ocular with slit pupils. It was being fairly still, which the two were glad for. A bullet in each chamber, their bolt-actions primed and ready.

"3, 2, 1," Jane counts and when they hit 1, they fire in unison.

Of course, Murphy's law reared its head.

One shot hit it in the eye, but the other missed the eye and instead impacted the bone ridge above.

Oh, the beast was surprised and _furious_ , but it was not dead yet.

"Oh," Jane begins.

"Shit." John finishes.

The beast roars an awful sound, maw bloody and mouth filled with curved, serrated teeth. Its one eye focusing on the forests, it scans for its attacker and snarls deeply, retreating into the cave rather than remaining outside.

"Fuck me!" John curses, glaring at the cave entrance.

"We hurt it, at least, we got that!"

"We need to kill it," John stands up and rolls his shoulders.

"And we're going to," Logan's voice startles the kids "and you owe me a nickle." Logan chides his son, who sighs and averts his gaze to the floor. Logan is carrying a backpack, a large thing, supported by a metal frame.

"Come on, let's go."

The teens fall in behind their father, who's armed similarly to them albeit with an assault rifle. "It's hurt, scared and pissed. Remember that." Logan warns "It's big and strong, but if you've read your codices you would know that." John and Jane nodded.

"We did, papa," John assures "Back to front, front to back, wore out the adhesive doing it."

"Good, then you should know that the Drake doesn't breath fire. It spits acid."

That was the strangest part of the codex for John and Jane. Not that a massive reptile is Endothermic, that it lays eggs similar to a chicken, or that if left unchecked it could grow to the size of a _bus_ , but that the food it _couldn't_ digest would be melted down and turned into a sick kind of acid that it could almost projectile vomit at whatever has upset it.

Namely, the Shepard twins.

 _'God Bless America and her fucked up Fauna'_ thought Jane.

"This acid not only reeks to high heaven, but it's also very corrosive and _will_ melt through your clothes, armor, and then you. Do not get it on you, do not step in it, stay far away from it. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" John and Jane call affirmative, steeling themselves for the fight.

"Alright, then let's move in and kill this thing!"

The closer they got, the worse it stank. Between the doe, the deer, the female deer*, and the smell of Drake dung and urine, they were happy for their masks but wished they had something _better_ to block off the stink.

Inside, they could hear the beast rumble and hiss in pain.

Logan reached into his coat and retrieved a kind of spray bottle, spritzing the entrance with a foul smelling liquid.

"Prepare," Logan warned.

The Drake responded immediately, roaring in rage.

"Fuck me," John swore, another nickel to his father's swear jar, as the Drake barreled out of its hiding place.

"What is that smell?" Jane huddled against the outside of the cave, aiming down her sights at the beast.

"The smell of another female Drake, they're very territorial." Logan huddled into position, aiming at the way the Drake was coming. "Shoot it in the soft underbelly."

"We read the codex, dad," Jane promises again "We got this."

"I'll believe that when it's dead and you're not." Logan growls.

John and Jane glance at one another, a pang of hurt in their hearts at their fathers words. They turn the hurt into resolve: Time to kill a dinosaur!

So it was, the monster rushed from the end of the cave and was lit up with the fire of their rifles boring holes in its chest and neck, but it kept coming.

In retaliation for the ranged attack, it opened with one of its own and sent a bubbling, steaming, hellish stream of Drake acid at the group.

Logan, John and Jane got out of the way quickly as the sick splashed on the floor and immediately began corroding the stone and dirt away.

Jane startled at the sickening smell and the sound of it eating away at the very terrain; what did this thing eat?!

It emerged with a snarl, each hand turning to grab a wall in an attempt to tear open one of the three attacking it.

Jane stares wide-eyed at the massive talon that digs its way into the stone with an incredible sound of shrieking stone. It was a bare six inches away from hooking into her clothes.

Breaking from her reverie, she quickly scrambles back retrieving her revolver and firing two shots into the knuckles.

The Drake screams, pulling itself forward and turning its agile neck to try and take a chomp out of Jane only getting a mouthful of air.

A bare _four_ inches away from her clothes.

John and Logan swing about and fire into the beasts neck, causing it to scream and send a quick burst of acid over their heads, bullets tearing at chunks of its face and mouth. It bears down on them now, taking the shots like a champion while blood spills all over the forest floor.

"Over here!" Jane screams, revolver sounding off at the back of the Drake's head. The shots are absorbed by the armor, however, and the Drake swings its tail to try and crush her against the wall. Jane drops under the tail and retrieving her knife, dropping the rifle, she stabs up into the monsters tail and twists about taking chunks of meat from the monsters muscled tail.

It swings about, standing on its back legs and roars as it plants its front feet by Jane and with a skull-shaking scream goes to tear Jane apart.

Acting without thinking, Jane grabbed the rifle and shoved it down the monsters throat, causing it to gag while Jane fires the bullet in the chamber, the last in the magazine. The Drake screams in pain, bubbling in the belly indicating it's about to squirt the acid. it bites down on Jane's arm, causing her to scream.

Jane stabs over and over at the beasts throat while Logan comes around the side and, wielding his knife, stabs it as well while John goes for the monsters chest.

Before it can puke, the monster is dead, one heart destroyed.

It collapses next to Jane, pumping blood, out of its wounds.

"Oh god..I'm alive!" Jane exclaims, before the pain overcomes her and she releases a scream that Logan will never forget.

"I've got you, baby!" Logan pries the monsters jaws open and, with quick and practiced care, begins to take care of Jane's arm. Medigel, a wondrous invention.

John drops to his knees right next to Jane, worry etched into his face as he checks for any more wounds "Are you okay?" Jane looks at her Brother, tears in her eyes as the pain courses through her, with a grin coming through the pain "Never better!"

"Go check the nest," Logan commands John who looks at him like he'd grown a third head.

"Go!" Logan roars at the boy, who after some hesitation goes and ignores the death inside.

There, deep, in the under dark, he finds his objective.

"Eggs! We got eggs!"

Logan gently lifts his daughter, her arm being repaired by the Medigel rapidly. Leaning on her father, she and Logan enter the cave. "On my pack is a bag, take the bag and put the eggs inside."

John nods, retrieving the bag from Logan's pack, keeping his gaze from his father's.

With the eggs retrieved, their mission was done.

"Now, I think you two deserve one hell of a reward."

John and Jane looked at each other and their faces split wide with grins.

* * *

( ** _*: I think I'm funny.)_**

(I want to apologize to _all_ of you who've read this story, to all that have been following me and wanting another chapter for..what, 3 months? 4? I forget now, but I swear I've been doing my best to try and get this chapter written. I wanted it longer, but I couldn't handle it all in one chapter. I'm hoping I can get the next one done soon.)

(The long hiatus is NOT due to any kind of lack of desire to write, I must make that clear. I love this story, I love writing it, and I love most of all your reviews, how it makes you all feel, and how it's made me feel when I read messages I get from people saying they love this story so. I can't apologize enough for the long hiatus, but I'm hoping now that I'm back and we can get into ME1 next chapter!)

(Thank you all so very much for reading this, and to you reading this now: You have my utmost gratitude. I hope you enjoy this chapter, the ones before, and those to come.)


	88. Shepard Twins

The Drake hunt was a resounding success according to the GAPA. The one who hired them met the Shepards outside of the forest. An Android, dressed in forest camo with a crossbow slung over his back. "You get the Drake?" The android asked, eyes a false green, voice calm but curious. Behind him was a truck, a few crates in the back. For what, the twins were unsure.

"Yes, sir." Logan answers "My children here killed it, son secured the eggs. My daughter was wounded, however," Janes arm thanks to the medigel was usable again, but was still fairly sore.

The android winced "I am truly sorry for the inconvenience, I'm glad you're safe atleast." The android bowed his head slightly.

"I'm fine, but thank you," Jane smiles at him "Was one hell of an experience."

"Indeed," The android nods "Where are the eggs?"

"Right here," John hands over the large sack "Better part of 8 eggs."

"It's good she couldn't find a mate, then. One Drake is fine, two is plenty, an entire family is trouble." The android nods "Well done. Here," the android takes one of the eggs and hands it to Logan "I figure you lot could use this. Drake eggs are good food."

"We only had a tag for the Drake," Logan tilts his head.

"I figure this along with your pay should cover the experience, if a bit." Logan takes the offered egg, a massive thing indeed. Better part of six pounds and 8 inches across.

"I appreciate it, how much are we being paid?"

"4500 dollars, USD."

"That...that's quite a lot." Indeed, 4500 dollars _was_ a lot of money, they could do plenty with that.

"Indeed. I'll have the drake recovered once I get back in the truck, I think our business is done here?"

"It is, good meeting you."

"You as well."

* * *

At 16 John and Jane were given an important choice, along with their schoolmates and others of their age. "Age fifteen is an important one for many reasons," Announces a giant of a man, dressed in dark denims with a leather jacket. Hooked to his belt is a leather case containing vials of some kind of liquid, while on the other side was contained some kind of plant.

The man was older, somewhere in his thirties maybe, with hair colored salt-and-pepper. Probably from stress. With him stood a number of important militiamen: Regiment commanders, Quartermasters, etc.

"But the one you're here for today is that you are being presented the choice as your parents were given and theirs before them. This is the age where the question is proposed to you: Do you dedicate your time to joining the militia?"

John and Jane made sure to keep their mouths shut.

"The Militia is about more than just protection, we're a community of citizen soldiers. Each of us has an occupation outside of the Militia, of course, but in the militia we each have our jobs. Radio operators, apothecaries, quartermasters, soldiers, and many more."

"Today, I offer you this choice: Join the Militia, connect to the community in a deeper manner and earn training that will be important to you in this life. Danger is everywhere, at all times, but you can help to mitigate this danger's power through training and service in the Militia."

"And most of all, as members of the Militia you will be apart of an ever present necessity of American life. Defending not just against the Alien, but the Supernatural, and the mundane. " Ignoring the fact that there _were_ aliens in the crowd, the speaker continued "You will defend your people, your state, your country against Tyranny from abroad and from your own government. We, the People, keep the government in line and on the path we desire of them. They serve us, not the other way around. We all know, this, yes?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" The majority of kids responded, although it was not as grand as one would hope. Mostly it was nervous, under the scrutiny of so many ex-military men and women.

"Good. Now, you won't be judged for not joining the militia, it isn't for everyone and I understand that. We all do. If you do desire to join, step forward in file and we'll get you all checked in. All those who want to join, forward!"

Most of the teens did step forward, John and Jane included. They were shoulder to shoulder, the files two ranks wide. Those who didn't desire to join, stepped back many with flushed faces.

"Good, good. Then all those that wish to join, follow Commander Darius and commence your oath." The teens followed the man named Darius, whose extensive cybernetics made him an intimidating figure. He turned on his heel and marched, the teens following his pace.

The speaker went forth to those who didn't join and smiled "I appreciate the honesty, kids, I do."

"I'm sorry, sir, I just..can't make that decision right now." One hangs her head ashamed.

"Don't be, it's alright. What's your name, kid?"

"Sarah, sir. Yours?"

"Jesse."

* * *

"I am an American. Whatever I was, whatever I will be, whatever I am, I am an American over all. With my life I will uphold the Constitution of the United States of America and will defend her people even should I fall in my duty. As a member of the Militia, I will defend my state and my country from Tyranny and foes foreign and domestic."

"For the men and women that have fought and fallen before me to give me this opportunity I owe my thanks. For their sacrifice I am greatful. For my people, I will stand and fight should they be threatened."

"Long live the Republic!"

 ** _"LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!_** ** _"_**

"Welcome to the Colorado State Militia, boys and girls. Make us all proud," Darius Saluted sharply, earning as good-a-salute as possible from the crowd of new militia soldiers.

"Now, I assume you've gotten some rudimentary training from your parents on how to handle firearms, correct?"

A chorus of 'yes'es and 'uh-huh's answered him.

"Good, good. Even still, you're going to need training and specialization. Being in the Militia, you need to know your neighborhoods, know how to defend them, and know all about how to survive in the woods. That's what you're going to be learning. For now, let's celebrate!"

* * *

The celebration for the new Militiamen was a fairly grand one, as far as the Militia went anyway. Plenty of drink (non-alcoholic for the new militia, however, much as some griped that fact) and food. Families gathered around in an open-air forum for the celebration, lights strung up on wire hanging from hooks and ledges around them lit up the forum while the citizenry mingled about.

John and Jane were among them, of course. On the perimeter of the area they all resided was a wall of concrete topped by outward reaching pylons about a foot long, spaced twenty feet apart, with metal cable stretching between. Climbing for much of anything would be difficult. Much of the trees of the perimeter were cut and cleared to provide sight lines for the guardsmen of the base. The sentries patrolled the top of the wall, a walkway of metal connecting all four corners of the base which resembled a Roman castra.

The center of which was the forum, the celebratory area for the militia.

Most of the buildings were quonset huts, connected at the midsection by short halls. Barracks, workshops, with one of the exceptions being the command center which resembled more of a large concrete bunker with radio dishes on top angled in different directions to receive signal from others.

At each of the four corners of the castra were watchtowers, sentries and spotlights watching the forests for creatures to come.

Jane and John were having fun, drinking their punch and conversing with other new recruits when Jane saw one of the most vital parts of the castra's defense: The sentries.

Standing at the top of a guard tower, rifle held firmly in his grip, he looked quite lonely.

Jane frowned, looking over at a table of punch and back at the sentry.

She looked at John who copied her previous motions and sighed "I'll cover for you," John nodded making Jane smile.

"Thanks," She walked to the punch table and picked up a glass, slinking through the crowd while John got their attention away from Jane.

"Behind you," Jane said as she came up the tower. The sentry turned the top of his body toward her, leaning back a bit to get a good sight. All in all, the bottom half stood stock still.

"What're you doing up here?" he put up an authoritative, angry front to Jane who had to resist shrinking slightly. Oh, she hunted a drake, but still some people just had that natural tone that could make a shark hunch back.

"I thought you might want something to drink," Jane wasn't lying, that _was_ the truth but she also wanted to see what it was like up in the tower. The view was godlike really, the spotlights _always_ crossed over one another, rarely ever leaving each other's lanes. There was rarely a spot uncovered by the light.

The sentry gave a light smile, warming Jane's heart a bit and bringing her forth a bit. "I appreciate it, kid. Set it down on the table, there," Jane looked at the table in question.

On it was a few papers, a typewriter, and a desk lamp that had a curved arm and low head. Obviously it was for reviewing notes. On the wall to the right of the table (which sat directly in front of the door) was a medkit and a rack of rifles.

Jane sets the drink on the table as instructed, turning to the sentry and finally taking him in.

He wears thick denims top to bottom, a backing to the broad breastplate and back armor on his torso, and the metal pieces of armor on his arms and legs while atop his head sat a helm and over his eyes a pair of goggles. By their barely visible aura, they were enchanted.

"What're your goggles?"

"Glamour Piercer, some creatures are capable of using glamour to hide themselves from our sight so I use these to negate that." He was turned back toward the outside again, head swiveling slowly. "The others wear the same." The others being of course the other sentries.

"I see," Jane nods "I've been reading what I can about magic and the like, glamours and all that."

"It's good info to have, kid. Could save your life." The sentries tone was grave "Never take for granted the transmundane. Never underestimate it, either."

"Yes, sir. I won't, sir."

"Good lass," the sentry and Jane are silent for a time as Jane joins his sentry, trying to help him spot anything until he nudges her with his shoulder"12 O'clock mid, trees, you see it?" Jane turns her gaze to his coordinates, but cannot see what it is he's pointing out.

"Squint," he instructs.

She does, with a slightly headache inducing result, and finally sees it. It's green, small, and agile as it climbs its way around the tree branches.

"What is that? Is it hostile?"

"Not at all, beneficial actually. That, there, is a Tree Imp." Jane frowned, aren't imps..usually mischievous?

So she asked.

"Aren't they mischievous? Imps?"

"Oh sure, some of them can be. But these are treeimps. They're different because they're not _technically_ imps. Think of them like the agents of the dryads, this one I imagine is just playing about."

"So how are they beneficial?"

"I'm sure you know many dryads reside in national forests now, where they're at less risk of being chopped down," Jane actually _wasn't_ aware of that.

 _'Have to read on that later..'_

"Tree imps are sent out to scout out what we humans are doing, for preservation really. But a side affect of their presence is that the Tree Imps, being naturally descended from geomantic magics, encourage growth wherever they go. To be perfectly honest, I think that might be the apothecaries Imp.."

"Jesse?" Jane asks.

"Yes," the sentry nods as the imp hangs between some trees, kicking its little legs about rather cutely. While doing so, it was spreading about some kind of green dust. Already, Jane could see that the earth beneath was starting to sprout. "Granted you can't actually _own_ a Tree Imp. More likely it's a symbiotic relationship. You'd have to ask him."

"I hate to impose," Jane curses herself mentally, realizing she's distracting the sentry further "But..how would he form a relationship like that?"

"Feed it," the sentry answered "Give it seeds and give it a place to relax. Dryads are a proud race of creatures and Imps are rather untrusting so they don't like to deal with us much unless it's a Geomancer or Geourgist."

"I see," Jane nods, looking from the imp to the sentry "I'm sorry for distracting you, by the way."

"Nothing of it," the sentry shrugs "I'll let it pass this time." He gives a slight smile, making Jane chuckle lightly.

"Thanks." Jane bid him farewell and walked down the stairs again returning to the crowd.

Thankfully, John kept them well distracted.

* * *

History will repeat itself if its lessons are not heeded. Heed them well the Terrans did indeed, but even still history, or a theme quite similar, seemed to happen. Following the aftermath of the Batarian war and the Veil lifting for the alien species, where shell-shocked veterans wanted to see _something_ fairly new, wanted to leave their marks on the universe..Terrans actually began to change. A species of stasis actually began to change, at least in some small ways.

Overall they remained brutally honest, brutally blunt like a brick in the face inscribed with the words 'Get the fuck over it' and as loving and hateful as ever, willing to extend one hand in support and with the other clutching a serrated blade should the hand be bit, but Terrans that wanted to spread out more used the ever universal language: Music.

To the Terrans, the synthesized mess of alien beat was just headache inducing but..some of them could be so interesting. Taking the guitars of the Terrans and some inspiration from alien music and with the fist of Terran existence mundane and supernatural came through a new, face-melting music that shocked Terran and Alien alike.

Metal...was born.

And spread like wildfire in the driest forests. Plating themselves with metal and adopting rather than the cool melody of jazz, the calm operatic tones of classic, they instead went for that which seemed to embody Terrans so well: The Guttural roar of the belly with riffs that could tear the starry vaults asunder.

Many Terrans rejected this new subculture of music, distasteful they called it!

Aye, maybe to some, but the power of metal was too much to stop even by those who hated it and those that loved it birthed a new generation of Bard.

The aliens thought the Terrans couldn't get any more manic.

By all the stars of the heavens, were they wrong. Not only because of music, either.

This new generation of music, and bards with them, proved themselves a frightening bunch when they took to experimental fields with their 'Axes' as they called them and set to their work. Their spellbooks were literally pages of sheet music, with different effects inscribed in the pages.

With instruments growling and screaming and making the bones shake, different effects took hold. Either fire rained from the sky, the earth rumbled and spiked upward, or lightning would arc from the head of the instrument and strike the bards target leaving it blackened and the air rich with the stink of ozone.

Other effects were noted as well. Experimentally, one of the artists took a blade and dragged its edge across his flesh with a light grimace. After, his instrument was alive with his actions, fingers playing the strings in a certain tab and from it, a fiery, golden light lanced from the head of the instrument and fixed the wound with speed. While not as thorough as dedicated healing magic, it certainly did the trick and the blood was wiped away from the bards arm triumphantly.

The act was recorded.

The act was broadcast.

Aliens just didn't know what to think anymore, but an unstoppable feeling of excitement came over some: New magic to learn!

* * *

Plasma was a technology only the Terrans really seemed to try for, at least as far as anyone could tell, as their near suicidal tendency to run headfirst into new technologies drew them forth to the 'fourth' element. The Blackwatch already employed experimental Plasma technologies in some of their engagements and were already on their way to more.

It was time for the greater body of Terra to try.

With Blackwatch assistance, their relationship symbiotic after all, it was quickly on the way.

The Salarians, ever spying, did their best to infiltrate the happenings and did so with incredible difficulty. Between the rarity of aliens that weren't Krogan or Quarian and the ardent technological rebuffing from the Terrans when it came to eezo technology, the Salarians were hard pressed to get in.

But they did it.

The Salarian creeps through the ducts, using the best camouflage technology the Salarians can employ, and does so with as much stealth as his lithe, experienced body will allow. This place is strange, so very strange. He'd remember it for some time. It feels alive and considering the new reality that probably wasn't far from the truth. Every plate of metal is riveted in place, pneumatic tubes hiss alongside, above and below him, and the sound of water in piping somewhere nearby tells him he may be passing by a bathroom pipe.

He can hear talking and plenty of it, the enhanced listening programs in his helmet allowing him to hear sharper than most would be able to otherwise.

Something about the 'Fae', the 'Ulaan Tribals' and 'Saurian mating season' coming to ear. Fae? Fair folk, he remembered the brief.

 _'The Fae, Fair Folk, are a supernatural race of beings that even the Terrans fear. Centered in Europe for the most part, they rarely will deal with mortal races and when they do, it is not usually to the enjoyment of the mortal.'_ If the Terrans, even the Blackwatch, feared the fae then he knew he should too.

Ulaan..Mongolian word. 'Red.' Ulaan Tribals? Orcs. He remembered that, too.

 _'The Ulaan are a race of Soyootoi, the Orcish name for themselves, that reside for the most part in what would otherwise be Mongolia. In the realm beneath this one, in the rough geographical equivalent to Mongolias location, some Ulaan live in their redwood forest homes while those outside of the great redwoods were forced into exile by other Orcish races, living in the harsh deserts of what would otherwise be the Gobi desert of China.'_

The Ulaan, he remembered, earned their name because of their red skin. Cannibals, vicious killers, and rarely allowing of visitors due to their exile. At least, that was the case for the Exiled Ulaan, he didn't know what the Redwood Ulaan were like.

And Saurians..he had to admit, he didn't know anything about them. Lizards? Some form of, perhaps. Though knowing how just so strange the galaxy was now, that may not be completely true.

Again, another name.

 _Dwarves._

 _'The Dwarves are a race of humanoid that are short in stature, but amazingly powerful in terms of physical strength. Able to bend steel with their bare hands and heft hammers the size of a grown mans thigh despite their height of a whopping 4' to 5' or anything in between, the Dwarves are master craftsmen and are the finest defenders in the world. Once a Dwarven regiment digs into a location, they withstand any attack with the stubbornness of an ox and determination of a Terran in the face of surely unbeatable odds. Magnificent beards and bierhalle*. Despise the Fae with all their being.'_

The Salarian shook his head, he couldn't believe so many creatures existed just out of eyesight and had for..so very long.

And more existed there, beyond all sight, known to the Terrans for so long now.

There was another name, this one he recognized as well: _Cyclops._

 _A species of giant humanoid (roughly 8 to 10 feet tall) containing one ocular unit in their head. Despite their name, Cyclops_ do _technically contain two eyes, but they're merged into one ball. Cyclops are found in Greece, along with their cousins the Gigantes, a descendent of the_ _Gigantomachy_ _giants of ancient times. Despite Giants being somewhat mentally slow, and their size being dangerous in and of itself, they're a fairly peaceful and agricultural people._

 _They love mountains and volcanoes._

The Salarian took a left, right, right, straight, left, right, and there it was.

A massive room, cut off at the halfway mark by a vyrillium ward. There gathers a number of Blackwatch and Terran government and military officials.

Typically, the Blackwatch are dressed in their black and white almost priestly garb while their engineers are dressed in sheer utilitarian clothing and armor as they prepared the weapon for the Blackwatch knight in an exosuit, a strange canister on his back. Linked by a thick tube to the weapon being prepped beside him, the Salarian figured this must be the ammo canister, perhaps.

Either way, he checked he was recording.

He wasn't.

Cursing himself he started his recording software.

The Blackwatch knight was given his new weapon, a weapon that looked like some kind of lovechild of a cannon and a rifle. It was painted olive drab, standard color of most Terran militaries, and the Salarian zoomed in on the weapon itself.

Vacuum tubes extended off it slightly, glowing as power was supplied. It had a wooden stock and grip which were an integrated piece, stained dark.

Surprisingly, for Terran weaponry, it seemed to have very few moving parts. Improvement? Maybe.

The Salarian followed the form of the weapon to what would otherwise be the magazine. There was the symbol for 'Radioactive', perhaps a battery?

The front of the weapon bore a foregrip, guarded from the intense heat that would come with a _plasma weapon._

"The plasma throwers we've used previous were truly weapons of horror, but didn't have as much range as we'd like. They were flashy, but not useful for much else. Through the years we've been improving on the design and have finally created a weapon that's light enough to use for Exosuited units and deadly enough for the cost." Announced the chief engineer, who wore an exosuit himself. "As well as these smaller versions we've created larger, more powerful, vehicle mounted weapons. As we're going to show you here, it's effective against armor _and_ flesh."

The Salarian was at the same time excited and afraid to see the demonstration.

"Currently, this infantry-borne weapon is fed by canister but we're quickly working on an air-breathing weapon."

"What does the weapon use for ammunition?"

"Hydrogen," replies the engineer replied "Like I said, it's air breathing, but with some modification I have a feeling we can increase the ammunition availability."

"But, let's get onto the test."

The Salarian watched as from the floor emerged a slab of 2' thick, solid steel.

The two engineers left the soldier be, fully prepared, and went through the Vyrillium ward harmlessly.

"Fire at will," the chief engineer ordered.

The soldier took aim at the massive slab and waited for a second before pulling the trigger. The recoil was light, but there, as a bolt of purple energy was sent rocketing down range with a loud _crack_ and slagged a portion of the target with hellish ease.

Firing again, the soldier aimed right down the center and slagged a further portion of the metal.

Again, again! With each trigger pull the air cracked as it reacted to the plasma bolts.

The crowd watched with awe as the metal was steadily slagged apart by the super hot plasma, eventually all that was left was a pile of melted metal on the floor, steaming.

Finally, the soldier stood down.

The Salarian was horrified.

What happened after was much worse, as a..bunch of living meat was brought out.

"What in Gods name is that?" one of the Terrans asked the Blackwatch the very question the Salarian had.

"Vat-grown tissue, it's sustained as though alive but it's not aware."

The Salarian gaped as he saw the soldier fire once and, with a sound of ripping paper, the plasma bolt tore a hole through the flesh. Once the plasma impacted it the flesh and water reacted by vaporizing almost instantly and, in a chain reaction, ripped a massive hole through the flesh as it bled pitifully.

It steamed, disgusting and dying. The terror of a single bolt unleashed on bare flesh.

The Salarian had to hold in his desire to wretch, he needed to be silent.

"As well as these weapons is the application of plasma thrusters, in particular is the air-breathing plasma thrusters. Propellers and jets are still in use in most aircraft, of course, but these plasma thrusters can and will do better for us and with fuel cells for the plasma already in production, we can have them working quickly."

"But how, exactly, does that work?"

"Orichalcum mostly, sir," replied the engineer "Super heat the gasses and out spits plasma. Without a magnetic trail for it to follow, it can't do that great a damage. It'll dissipate a short ways out of the thruster, but it'll already have given its power to the thrust."

"What's the advantage?"

"In places that have no oxygen or in other conditions, our ICE can't breath. Plasma thrusters with air-fuel cells can operate without, increasing our versatility."

"That's a good thing."

The Salarian listened and recorded for a time more before moving on, he had to go back to the council with this. They had to see it.

* * *

To the Council's credit they were doing their best to understand the tome they were given and were on their way to an incredibly basic understanding of magic. What few specimens of Terran magitek they managed to steal from the Terrans, they did their best to examine.

Something just kept messing with them though. It was as though it _couldn't_ be examined, as nothing really wanted to expose itself no matter how deeply they looked at it.

Aside from very minute differences in the composition of, for example, orichalcum over copper, there was nothing that showed _why_ it acted the way it did.

"I don't understand," gripes an Asari scientist as she reclines in her chair in frustration scratching her fringe "I just don't get it. As far as I can tell this is just copper, the magic isn't being picked up and anything I think I might be getting at just isn't actually even there. What is this stuff? The Terrans aren't just leading us by the lip, it works like a charm, we've seen that, but what is it?"

Her colleague, a Turian, sits with a contemplative look on his face scratching his chin.

He let his friend continue her rant.

"It just makes no sense. You can't make something from literally nothing, yet that's what magic does. You can't just...do _that_ ," _'that'_ being magitek in general "and get such a weird material out of something so common and mundane. What copper does, orichalcum does so much better. What titanium does, adamantium does better. But what goes into it? 'Oh, a storm mage squeezed his body in on itself and out popped a dollop of condensed magic, ta-da we've got orichalcum!' or 'Oh, a Terramancer rubbed his hands together and out popped green magic! Adamantium, the most durable material ever!' Bullshit!"

The Asari was raving now, panting and flailing her hands about as she tries to piece it together.

Her colleagues response was infuriating.

"Ya done?"

"I will peel your scales! Swear I will!"

"Ya done," the Turian grinned at his partners exasperated 'gah!' and gave his two cents "I think you're thinking on it too hard," the Turian decides to use Terran bluntness which just made the Asari scowl "The Terrans obviously don't. 'We take W a storm mage does X and out comes Y and if we mix Y and W we get Z.' That seems to be the Terran way of doing it. They don't think too hard on it, it'd be like trying to imagine how a centipede glides across the surface with so many damned legs. They even have a name for it!"

The Asari sat and listened to her friends sensible argument and felt herself scowling: the Terrans infected him, too. Damned bluntness!

"The Terramancers are Earth personified, right?" The asari didn't know that, damn it "Slow, calculating, but brutal once they get going. They only _kind of_ know what they're doing, they know if they do X they get Y, but why does Y happen when they do X? They don't know, we don't either, and they've been at it for...who knows how long."

"Are you saying magic is unknowable?" the Asari feels the headache she'd felt for so long returning. She throws her head back, nursing her eyes with the palms of her hands and lets out an exasperated groan "Fuuuuuuck."

"We know storm magic mixed with copper equals orichalcum," the Turian uses his hands and fingers to make an image for himself and the Asari "Orichalcum is like copper but better, because it transmits electricity with more efficiency, seems to amplify it in some ways, and is in general copper made much better because of the storm magic in it."

The Turian looks at the cord of red-gold metal on his desk and picks it up.

It has the feeling of gentle static, tingling his finger tips. Yet, no static is actually there. It just..feels as though it is.

"The Terrans are also alchemists, which is a whole other ball game as they'd say," he ignores the Asaris grunt of distaste for the phrase "Alchemy is chemistry but with magic involved, on a scale we never could've imagined in our wildest dreams." the Turian turns to the Asari and holds up the orichalcum "Magic is at the same time an embodiment of the natural and a rejection of all reality. I think that in order for magic to even be used, you have to forget a part of reality. That's why the Terrans are so...Terran, because they're not fully here."

"I fucking hate magic," sighs the Asari.

"We all do," replies the Turian sympathetically.

* * *

 ** _(Well, this was supposed to be a chapter dedicated to the Shepards and the Militia, but I think next chapter will be that. This is a good place to end this chapter, methinks.)_**

 ** _(*Beer Hall.)_**


	89. Each a nation

Far and away, away from all that live and die, love and hate, is a thing of equal stasis and roiling, unabated turmoil that rends the very fabric of the world around it. Not a physical world, not a true terrestrial thing, but the very fabric of reality around it. An aura of insanity twists and turns around it while a disciple rests in its belly, as though a gestating youngling in the womb.

It rocks back and forth in its cradle of a trillion fingers, a room utterly lacking in color surrounds it while it is held in the utterly disdainful care of its seat. Its head rocks back and forth, flopping like a limp fish in the hands of a tormenting being, as an ululating laugh erupts from its throat bouncing off the walls that breath.

If it could've looked closer, it would've seen what could be called a mockery of a brain's ridges made up of the tissue of a billion lost souls that echo its laughter, putting it through a filter of a trillion voice boxes and sending it back with booming force.

Eyes leak. Blood or bile, one could not be sure. But they leak. Ears bleed sanity from the head that they reside upon, draining from the center directly.

The ululation continues, the flopping becomes more violent, and the aura grows to something so dark and hateful that no emotion of joy could escape nor pierce it. The cradle squeezes and palms at its cargo, the interior of the brain housing its host while outside a massive brain of an entire civilization's people hovers above a dangling form like a parasite on the hide of a titan, the exterior a truly maddening expanse of alien architecture summoned from the collective of non-beings.

A storm roils about in the brain and outside, the ululation is violent and the rocking and flopping is now wild thrashing as the physical form is broken down and reconstituted into something better, different, and worse.

And then it stops.

From the mouth of the new being is a booming, legionary voice that announces its first words in millenia:

 _We are each a nation._

* * *

(Shorter than shit but I think this chapter is a good one to prepare the future.)


	90. Codex: Magic and the Metaphysical

Magic is as much a rejection of natural law as it is an embrace of natural law. What nearly _all_ sentient species seem to misunderstand, even those who delve so deeply into magic as the Terrans, is that Magic isn't unnatural. It's as natural as breathing, the only thing that continues the falsehood of Magic being an unnatural force is a deeply ingrained, almost genetic, memory when many tried to dismiss the wonder and terror of magic as something made up when their ancestors were high on mushrooms.

Even the Terrans, who tried to build a veil around themselves and their perception of the world, couldn't deny that magic was indeed there and they used it in everyday life. As much part of them as they were the world they inhabited (and, as will be discussed later, _others_ they inhabited) and just as impossible to deny.

The reason other species _didn't_ manage to continue magic like the Terrans did is because of sheer force of will. In all technicality, any being can be a Mage (even if of little skill) but for many this magic is locked away. They just can't understand it, it simply doesn't come to them as it does others (Mages). Oh, they can understand some of the mechanics of it and that 'X' does 'Y' and 'Y' helps us accomplish 'Z' but, like an animal with a light switch, won't understand _what_ actually goes into it.

What actually goes into Magic is in and of itself difficult to explain let alone understand, but the simplest explanation possible is that whatever made the Big Bang, whatever borne the Universe into being, whatever created Everything perceived, did so with more than just a truly outrageous event of force creating a _still_ expanding universe. Whatever borne the Universe into being, the energy was still latent in all things, the very power that birthed the Universe could be bent, molded, and used as a tool by anything smart enough (or simply capable enough) to understand in some way the power it feels in its brain, whatever the size.

Magic is the power of the Universe, and some theorize not merely the one they occupy but the power of _many._ The Multiverse theory is one popular among mages, especially with the existence of Realms being a known factor.

Magic is also what drives the existence of realms.

Realms (As far as those found in Terran home space anyway, although none have been discovered elsewhere) are, in essence, pockets or entire _dimensions_ of 'space' created through Magic that 'orbit' a central point.

This central point is Sol-Center.

Some call Sol-Center the Sun, but in truth Sol-Center is Terra herself. Terra is a melting pot of people, creatures, and experiences and it's from there that many realms have formed, collided, melded and thrived.

Realms are created when a particularly powerful magic user (Or a God) or magic users opens a hole and demands that space make room, _'I make from nothing, something.'_ similar to 'Let there be light'.

However, realms aren't always living spaces for entire new worlds to be created. A kind of magic gaining some traction with the Terrans is that of 'Area-Expansion' magic, essentially like creating a Bag of Holding into a room.

Area-Expansion magic is a specialty of Enchanters, who use their talent to force the room to be larger than it actually is while maintaining standard outside spatial area.

In short terms, Bigger on the Inside than it is Outside.

A small basement, 10'x10', can be made 25'x25' for example, depending on the strength of the mage in question. Once this is done, though, it can be reverted back to the normal size by an enchanter. This is the only way to really reverse the effect, as if the basement was destroyed then the extended part would be 'lost' somewhere.

Where at, exactly, is unknown, but it's possible some poor realm is going to get the remains of an extended basement smack dab in a jungle somewhere.

Realms can also be created for personal reasons, such as creating a personal and isolated room for oneself for whatever purpose they desire.

For example, an Alchemist can have their store of ingredients held in their personal realm or a gardener could have a pantry in another realm full of food.

How these realms are accessed is down to the one the realm is owned by. A physical, yet unnecessary, manifestation of the access key to the realm will often be carried by the owner of the realm but the real power is already in them. They can open, and close, access to the realm at will by mental command using magic.

Even non-mages can do it, as the magic is essentially imprinted into them.

* * *

 ** _Magical creatures_**

As established earlier, magic is completely natural.

As magic is nature, and nature is chaotic, magic is similarly chaotic and can (and often does) mingle with creatures of nature to create some truly amazing beasts.

For example, Dragons.

Creatures such as Dragons, great beasts that some theorize (Correctly) to be descended of Dinosaurs of old by some strange means of magic, are intelligent (some even sentient) creatures and are capable of using Magic, some better than others. They also are creatures that have natural elements of magic in them, such as the material Aerium, which allows such massive beasts to fly and be so durable.

Most creatures would need bones like those found in birds in order to be light enough to fly, but this makes their bones easily broken.

Dragons, however, feel no such restraint. Their bones are dense, durable, and each scale is that of armor. With their natural magic, Dragons are the stuff of nightmares especially for those whom had no gunpowder weaponry (or little to spare).

Dragons are cousins to Wyverns, Wyrms, and Drakes, and also to creatures such as the Hydra and come in forms such as Elemental dragons or those found in Asia, the massive creatures with no wings yet flying so gracefully.

Dragons are creatures that are adaptable (their cousins Drakes even moreso), depending on their type, and can breed quickly depending on the situation they find themselves in. For example, in the change of seasons they'll shed their scales in favor of scales the color of their environment, to better blend in.

Dragons are creatures strange, as though they appear reptilian they actually are Endothermic: Warmblooded. They don't need to sun bathe as most coldblooded creatures do in order to regain what was lost. This only helps in their adaptability, however, and their danger.

An example is a Dragon (or, more likely, a Drake) in winter. The beast will sense the change in weather, see the change in its environment, and quickly grows new scales under the layer it already has. Once complete, the beast shakes itself like a dog after a bath and there, covering its muscled body, is a clean coat of white scales.

Drakes are, unlike their Dragon cousins, incapable of breathing fire and instead will spit an extremely corrosive acid that can melt through metal, hide, flesh, and bone with ease and is thus its answer to the elemental breath used by other Draconic breeds.

Dragons aren't the only magical creatures, they're just the most popular.

Sometimes, creatures seen as normal on Terra may by some stroke of (un)luck be struck by magic and be made into a creature separate from its kin and these creatures typically are those found in old lore.

Unicorns, for example.

Basilisks are another, _stunningly_ dangerous breed of creature that is magical by nature and uses this not just to advantage but is its very means of attack.

Basilisks are snake monsters that, thankfully, don't need to eat very much. However, what they _do_ eat comes in fairly great quantity as they enjoy stuffing themselves quite to the brim before sleeping.

Some Basilisks are, however, born with a strange condition that makes them digest their food rapidly and thus require more food. Top this off with a disturbing penchant for malice and the creatures are feared in all areas they're found.

What makes Basilisks so dangerous is that they have two ways of attacking, usually in tandem with one another: One is their paralytic stare, a magical attack that seems to pierce wards and go right into the very heart and soul of a person locking them in their bodies to scream in their own minds in terror while the Basilisk closes in for the kill using its incredibly potent venom.

They only need small amounts for most human prey, thus a nick from a Basilisk is almost certainly fatal.

Basibane is a poison created using Basilisk venom that dilutes the fatality of Basilisk venom enough that whoever is infected with it will die a slow, _extremely_ painful death that promises nothing but the worst agonies felt until then.

* * *

 ** _Magical Races_**

Oh, where to start. Some races, whether they were once Human, cousins of humans, or creatures entirely apart from Humans there are more than just those found outside of Sol.

The Humans know these creatures exist, a fact of life is that they live _with_ Humans with some shocking ease and frequency.

For example, Dwarves live among Humans as do beings such as Elves and Orcs. The reason they are unseen by the greater galactic community is by choice: They glamour themselves to hide from the others.

This is due to fear, what would the aliens do if they learned not only were the Humans not alone in their world, but that they housed other creatures?

Some creatures, however, hide for reasons their own.

Powerful, terrifying races.

One such race of powerful magic users is one that The Council was warned about: The Fae, the Fair Folk. To Terrans, and many other species residing in the realms and on Terra, the Fae are to them what the Protheans are to everyone else: The precursors, the progenitors, the first and feared and revered ones.

Except unlike the Protheans, the Fae are _very much still alive and around_. Fae are amazingly fickle creatures, feared by Terrans more than any Alien or even The Omen. An Alien will kill a Human. The Omen nearly wiped Humanity out.

The Fae would (and have, to some species of human) _so. Much. Worse._

The Fae truly look out for number one, everyone else is a distant second, third, fourth, etc.

The Fae are a group that are truly amazing magic users, whose very thoughts could mold Terra if they so desired. But, they have a weakness.

Well, one they tend to..'Like' humanity some, even if only to fuck with them.

Two, iron. That blessed substance so many Terrans swear by, the Fae find to be poison. Iron, for whatever reason, saps their magic, their very _being_ and will kill them like silver does to a Werewolf or Vampire. Fae will refuse to come near the stuff, for proximity can kill them unless it's sufficiently covered.

Touching it is to the Fae what touching a fast acting, violent acid would to a human.

The Fae are easy to upset and when done so, will take revenge. Whether this be on an individual, a family, an entire bloodline...or an entire _species_ depends on the severity of the insult or the mood of the Fae in general.

The Fae did this to one Human species.

One in particular, one that many Humans believe to have simply been bred out of existence by Homo Sapiens.

Homo Neanderthalensis.

* * *

 ** _Realms and Sol-Center_**

On the subject of Realms, these are best described as a tree similar to Yggdrasil, the World Tree of Norse Mythology (or even kin of Yggdrasil) that starts at the base, the Trunk, Earth, and from the long limbs and branches are leaves, showing realms and pockets, damn near entire miniverses, that contain peoples, cultures, landscapes, animals, _worlds_ all their own.

It's in these realms that Humanity has spread far, some unrecognizable to their progenitors, and others more recognizable, and with other species ('Veiled' species, that is Supernatural or 'Fantasy' creatures such as Dwarves, Orcs, Elves, and a myriad of other creatures) create entire worlds of their own.

Sometimes, the tree of Terra suffers a maelstrom and it's in this metaphysical storm that realms cross close to Terra's 'position' and can leave 'marks' (ruins where they never were, creatures where they never were before, etc.) in Terra as a reminder that they were once there.

To those realms in 'closer proximity' to Terra, it is possible (Has happened and will happen) to travel between Terra and these other realms. However, where one realm begins and another ends is one that's difficult to place for those mages that have studied the realms (And some, such as The Elder, have gone so far into their studies few are sure if it's truly one man that they're seeing or if it's an aspect of one man) and indeed, many believe that the separation from Terra and the closest realms is superficial at best.

* * *

 ** _Souls_**

Something of particular note for the metaphysical is the existence of Souls. Souls are..batteries, in essence. They're like the pilot of a plane. Before the pilot, there's nothing to move it (unless the plane is possessing of a soul of its own, but, details.) or make it do what it's supposed to do.

But with the pilot, the plane does amazing things.

Souls are why the first Mechanoids could operate as they did without advanced computers. Because the soul had an instinctual understanding of what to do.

To the first Mechanoid, stepping off the block and seeing its creators there would be to a human stepping before God and being embraced like one long lost and first seen.

To the modern Mechanoid, they're created for purpose (most of them, anyhow) and the effort on the part of the Human creating them imbues them with the soul they require to operate. To them, stepping off the line and seeing their creator and knowing they were built for purpose with care..what could be better?

Warm crafting.

There are reasons there's such a stigma among Terrans against relying solely on automation to create items. Not all items created or used by Humans will have a soul capable of intelligence or understanding its existence, however they will have a residual warmth to them.

Souls are complex things, yet shockingly simple. A soul is the pilot, the spark, the power, and the forbidden fruit for some creatures. Souls are difficult to destroy or harm by any mortal means. Even a Phylactery will only work so long, eventually it will be broken or the cycle of changing a soul from one to another can be broken, the soul will eventually be 'recycled'.

What does this mean, though, for those that believe in the afterlife?

Nothing bad. As said, souls are complex things. If one believes in the afterlife, whatever it be, and their God or Goddess should so accept them, they will go there. A part of them, anyhow. Think of it like a skim. Taking that which experienced, loved, hated, felt joy and sorrow, and held faith that death would hold for them an afterlife that would allow them whatever paradise they were promised and allowing it that which it so sought.

The rest, devoid of these, is 'recycled' in the process of what is, essentially, reincarnation.

This also works for those bearing souls such as automatae. Namely, vehicles.

For the Terrans, vehicles possess souls just as any other and similarly have attitudes and personalities. Should something catastrophic happen, the vehicle is put to rest, if it's just simply not possible for it to be recovered. In time, the spirit will have passed on. The steel will be cold.

It will be recycled.

Should the vehicle be 'tied' to someone, say, someone who spent a lot of time on the vehicle and treated it like a loved one, then the Terrans will typically bury that person with their vehicle. Dogs are Man's best friends and vehicles are damn close, many Terrans find. However, not all vehicles are buried with their owners, instead they're passed down through generations.

So, should the vehicle be buried with the owner, the car will be excavated after in order to re-use the material. Although, sometimes this will be ignored.

* * *

 ** _Magic: Occurrence and the schools_**

Back on the subject of magic, Magic can be discovered in a Mage usually around 18 or so. After that, it's generally decided that someone won't be a mage.

Magic can be passed down through blood, too, with some more likely to be Mages than others due to an ancestor or direct ancestor (such as parents).

Magical affinity is difficult to pin down _who_ will get it, except for those particularly interested in..well, breeding mages. This is similar to eugenics, breeding those who have magical affinity in an attempt to create another generation of mage.

This doesn't happen much in the modern age.

Not in Terran lands, anyway.

Magic academies teach schools of magic, after they teach how to actually control magic so no one gets impaled on an ice spike or set ablaze because someone got upset.

These academies also will sell magic books, essentially instruction guides, on how to cast different spells for mages to memorize and experiment with.

These tomes come stacked with basic spells, such as shield and healing magics, but more specialized, and advanced, tomes detail different schools of magic.

For example, Pyromancy is the school of magic that deals with Fire. A Pyromantic tome would detail the different applications of fire magic, the different techniques while using it, and of course safety tips when using Pyromancy, such as how to simply heat the palm of your hand rather than create a ball of fire the size of your head.

Terramancy is a school of magic that is fairly rare for a person to be born with an affinity for the school, for reasons unknown, but even those who learn Earth magics will find themselves handsomely employed should they become adept with it. Terramancers are immensely useful, their affinity for the magic makes them almost natural farmers and their presence seems to make the earth around them..bloom more.

Technically, -Mancy means 'Divining' and '-urgy' means actually working with, but that distinction is only used for Necromages, covered below.

Necromancy is surprisingly common, however many would rather not be near Necromages for their near universal tendency to dress like their magic: Deathly.

Plague doctor masks are not uncommon for Necromages, as a kind of joke.

Necrourgy is the practice of actually reanimating the dead, whether with the souls of the dead or just by instilling the body with magic in order to create an automaton of sorts. These often have a rudimentary sense of what they're doing, yet they have no individuality, they are of barely animal intelligence at most and are driven by the wills of their re-animator.

Necrourgy is, like many things, seen with distaste in the case of War but the Terrans still use it. It wasn't uncommon in the first world war, for example, for Necrourgists to reanimate dead bodies and use them in massed assaults. After all, that which is already dead can't technically die again.

The vessel will, however, fail if enough damage is dealt. The magic can only hold for so long, for example, under sustained machine gun fire.

Necrourgists tend to make do in the modern day with custom made skeletons, using special techniques of bone molding using bone meal recipes to create a vessel that will contain their magic. With reinforcing, whether in the form of leather straps, metal machinery, or nails hammered in, these vessels become quite sturdy and can last for a considerable amount of time.

As they never were a person, most do not mind when a Necrourgist has a bone golem with them.

Healing magic is a very well sought after school of magic that, as it says in the name, focuses on healing, however it would be more accurate to call it a 'Buff', though healing is very much part of the school.

Healing magic centers on the ability to heal another being, whether from up close or afar. Magic relies on imagination, willpower, sheer mental stamina, and discipline. Healing magic is no different, but is one of the easier schools to learn.

For a mage to heal someone, they have to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of physiology (and in the modern day, this means going beyond just Human physiology) in order to help weave the magic into the target a bit easier. This is fairly easy, no one needs to know _exactly_ why one thing does another, just enough to pass a rough test.

The better the Healer, however, the better the Physiologist they are. A Master healer is someone who has mastered Physiology and weaved it into their magic and the result of this is someone who can accomplish what can only be called miracles.

Healers can project their magics in different ways, whether this be with a healing aura or in the form of a shield. These shields are barriers of magical power, projected by the mind of the Mage that act similar to a kinetic barrier ('Shield') used by aliens. These shields are easy to cast, but the more powerful the shield the more strain is placed on the Mage.

Shields will hold against most physical attacks, unless they simply overwhelm the Mage's ability to hold it up, and what happens to the projectiles there of is absorption. Most shields take physical form as a barrier of hexagons, as Hexagons are such an interesting and easy to understand shape.

Healers can also cast buffs on their allies or themselves, or in an area. For example, they can create an area shield, cast a personal shield on themselves or an ally (or multiple, if they're talented), or can create a healing field around them to heal themselves and allies.

Those that are learned in both Healing magic and Necromagic can also do something that is considered the ultimate sacrifice for a healer. A healer can take the physical pains, the stress, the disease and ailment from a person and transfer it to themselves in exchange for their own personal health.

This transfers the health of the Healer to their target, transferring the ailment of one for the health of another.

This shortens the lifespan of the healer considerably, as it takes _years_ if not decades from the healer and transfers it to their target.

Elemental magic, such as Pyromancy, Terramancy, Cryomancy or Aeromancy, can be taught like any school of magic but some are born with an affinity for one school in particular. This doesn't mean those born with the affinity can't learn other schools, not at all, it just means they have an easier time of one or another.

Pyromancy is quite possibly the most common form of Elemental magic, as fire seems as natural to humans as anything, and is easy to learn but is also easy to botch. Any mage that holds a fireball for too long, for example, if they lose concentration then it can create possibly disastrous effects for the mage (and anyone around them).

Pyromancy doesn't need someone to have experience in creating a fire by hand, though it doesn't hurt. Pyromancy can create flames as a ball, a jet, an ember, or can be used to heat the body considerably (with no damage to the mage, as long as they keep concentration).

Pyromancy is a very well known and used school in the military, as any man that can create a firestorm to make the enemy die or surrender is a good thing.

Cryomancy is the ability to control snow and ice, a branch of Hydromancy, which is the ability to control water. Cryomancy is the polar opposite to Pyromancy, for obvious reasons, and rather than burning everything to the ground Cryomancers can _freeze_ their targets or create colder temperatures in an area.

Cryomancy is a very well sought after school, as Cryomancers create Cryogel, which is an amazingly cold substance that can be manipulated to either absolute zero temperatures or lukewarm temperatures. Cryogel is used in many, many things by the Terrans including keeping their weaponry cool under fire.

It also can be used in internal combustion engines, to keep everything from going catastrophic.

Terramancy is a _very_ sought after school and those with an affinity for it are sought after even more. Terramancy is the school of magic that controls the Earth and earthly elements and like Healers, the better the Terramancer the better the geologist, as they learn more and more about the Earth (and geology in general) to better their understanding of their magic.

Terramancy is the school of magic necessary in creating Terragel, the substance used in creating Adamantium and also the substance used in Terraforming new planets, or altering those already formed. Terragel is a wonderful substance, literally the essence of the Earth herself in a condensed, jelly form.

Terragel, like Cryogel, can be altered and changed with alchemy to create a specified environment. For example, a desert can be made an Oasis with some tinkering and liberal amounts of Terragel applied, or a barren wasteland can become a truly fertile grassland given some time and effort.

Terramancers are also good Early Warning Systems, as their affinity with Earth allows them to detect if an earthquake is about to happen and can even tell what severity. With effort and many mages, Earthquakes can either be stopped or lessened, but most of the time Terrans rely on sturdy construction to ride out the quakes.

Aeromancy is a very important school to the Terrans, after all they create Aerogel, which is used in creating substances like Aerium or creating metals like Mithril and Aerosteel. Aeromancers, like Terramancers, can predict when some form of storm is about to come and can mitigate its effect some or even steer it around an area (or back where it came) in order to avert any potential loss of life.

Again, though, most of the time Terrans tend to rely on their construction and wit to survive.

Electromancy is at the same time a branch of Pyromancy and not. While most Electromancers were once Pyromancers, but aren't necessary to be one or another. Electromancers are, again, _very_ well sought after and handsomely paid for their service in creating Electrogel, which is used in creating Orichalcum.

Electromancers can manipulate lightning and the clap of thunder, making them dangerous opponents to have but very useful allies as well. Electromancers can call down storms like the wrath of God, an awesome force that vaporizes most anything that is in its direct touch and frying anything else.

Electromancers are often bald. _'Close calls, I decided to just shave it all off.'_

Another school of magic is Summoning, this being a school not often used or taught but to those it is it can be very useful. Summoners can create special items, such as bags of holding, that contain a miniature realm in and of itself. The rarity of these items, subsequent expense, and reason they're practically _fantasy_ to most Humans is due to the lack of Summoners to create them.

Summoners can summon beings from The Other Side, from other realms, and can create portals to other realms.

Some Summoners will go so far as to create pacts with creatures, such as elementals or even _demons_ to serve them in exchange for..something.

The price is not always something so awful as a soul, or blood. Sometimes, it's food. Drink. A place to sleep. a book. A fleece made of wool, it really depends on the creature.

Enchanting is another school of magic, which rather than using flashy spells works by inscribing magical power into an item, whether that be a weapon or armor or clothing, and thus creating the effect desired in the item.

For example, a hammer could be inscribed with earth magics and made heavier or hit harder, or a sword could be inscribed with air magics (doubly so if it's made of Aerosteel or mithril) and made lighter, or swifter. Armor can protect more, or can create a minor shield, etc.

However, simple inscription isn't enough for Terrans who seek to amplify these effects in their enchanted gear and do so frequently.

Alchemy is as much a school of magic as it is science, as Alchemists are equal parts chemists and mages, who create potions, salves and other items imbued with magical power.

For example, an Alchemist can create a potion that can make one swifter on their feet, sneakier, and rarely become invisible. Other effects, such as night vision or enhanced reflexes, are also fairly common.

Contrary to popular belief, the bigger bottles don't mean more effect necessarily, it means quantity. A bottle an inch tall, for example, can heal a near dead Krogan to full health if he ingests it.

This doesn't mean a large bottle can't be potent, it just means it will be _expensive._ Hold your wallets, because prices hurt.

* * *

(I've done a chapter about magic before, but I decided I wanted to do another one considering so much has changed in Visions as of late. Magic has changed from what it was and become more in depth, so I thought it warranted its own chapter, to say nothing of its importance to the future.)

(This is also an excuse to get an opinion. See, John and Jane are near 18. What happens, will depend on what you all think. We're close to ME1 now, but would you like to see what happens to John and Jane in their personal paths on the way there? Because something's gonna happen to John and Jane, whether or not we see it depends on what you think. Depending on the amount of votes for one or another, John and Jane will get their own chapters after the next one is posted, detailing what's happened to them before we get to the words 'Well, what about the Shepards?'

I hope to see your answers.)


	91. Changing galaxy

A newscast in Council space briefed the greater community on the state of the Terrans, who were a hot topic for some time. First was the Quarians:

The _Quarians of Zeek are prospering with their home and have been making payments on time. With the resources of rich systems nearby and a place to put their feet up, the Quarian fleet has been updated and refurbished with new material and the names have been passed onto the new bodies of the ships._

 _Picking up Terran magitek with some success and using the knowledge gained from their close proximity, the Quarian people fully realized some time ago that their ships are as alive as they once thought and the adjustment was swift._

 _Quarian numbers have grown exponentially. What was once 17 million has grown to nearly 60 million and is expected to grow to the better part of over 100 million in the next decade or so._

 _Despite being happy with their new home, there's no small number of Quarians who continue to make plans for Rannoch._

 _None of the Terran governments have commented on this._

Video feed cut to Zeek and the Quarians thereon, showing that the cast was true. Quarian ships in orbit looked brand new, and ran like it too, as their hulls shone beautifully in the light. In the process of being painted with more matte colors, the ships were tended to by great crews of Quarian and machine workers who painted the hull.

Then on the planet itself, entire communities were shown thriving. Quarian children grew, ran with others of their age and species through the farmer's market tended to by Quarian farmers and shopped by Human merchants who came to see the progress and to buy goods from Zeek. There were nearly no places on Terra that grew Dextro food, at least not in industrial number, so for those who got more sustenance from Dextro food than Levo, Zeek was like the food Mecca.

Prefabricated buildings were steadily being replaced by buildings created by the Quarians themselves using newly developed technologies and old, such as Quikrete and good old steel. Solar panels lined many roofs, solar trees lined the streets, and pots of plants ate up the sun that the solar panels didn't.

With Quarian scientists given so much more breathing room, they could dedicate their time to developing technologies that would benefit themselves and their Human allies, whom they shared a dear connection with.

One of these, not shown on the news cast, was electroactive polymer muscle, an evolution of the servomachines and pneumatics and hydraulics in use by the Terrans, and potentially far better, the Quarians with their lack of fear of new technologies were spearheading the effort.

"I think we're thawing them out a bit, the Terrans," a Quarian scientist told the news caster "They fear too many new things too quickly, but I think we're certainly helping in this regard. They've seen the advantage, I think, and they're anything but too stupid to see an advantage."

The Terra crystals hammered into the crust of the world by the Terramancers were still there, pulsing gently and humming as though powered by the planet itself.

Entire forests of dextro plant-life grew without insect life, no assistance, sustained by the crystal itself.

"It's an endless supply of food, grows quickly, but is not without price," explains a Quarian botanist, who wears a green and brown suit befitting the role "The Terrans charge for the crystals just as they do for the planet annually. Apparently, the creation of these crystals is an expensive one and could've been used to create the Terraforming bombs rather than these crystals, so we're very thankful for the act."

Zeek itself cost a million credits annually, which in truth was rather _cheap_ all things considered "The Terrans aren't dumb, they were expecting this when they gave us this planet in the first place, us to help them. They wouldn't be afraid to pull it out from under us, either, if we didn't. We're more than happy to pay for the crystals, the planet, and to give our services. We're growing and living again, so I think that we're paying a low price for the life of our species."

* * *

What the news didn't see is that the Terrans sent ambassadors to their two alien allies, the Krogan and the Quarians. While the Krogan was largely one for simple discussions, Daro'Xen was meeting an ambassador for a pressing matter of science and magic, which was all well and good considering _who_ it was.

Meeting Daro'Xen was a creature born of science and magic, the latter of which she was _obsessively_ fascinated with, and while all her tests (from afar) on Magic had been fruitless, as she figured they would be, she hoped for a better outcome with the creature to come.

This creature, one of mechanical make yet with no hackable on board computers, and operating on a level few computers have been able to (that is, almost perfectly human in every way) that hadn't usurped their home, was one that Daro'Xen felt _many_ levels of interest in.

Daro'Xen met her assigned ambassador with her typical pose: A cocked hip, crossed arms, and a slightly cocked head.

General Abbot met her with a slight grin on his mechanical face, the mechanisms therein mimicked a human face with as much perfection as mechanical armatures and levers could. His eyes, though, just...oozed with the same feeling one would see in any organic being.

Even a woman of science like Daro'Xen couldn't deny the sheer fact of magic that was Abbot, for he exuded organic swagger and had the pace of a man who'd long served in the military. From what she knew, Abbot was a Military Mechanoid created long ago. How long she couldn't know.

He was American, that much was true, but how old was he? All American Ground Forces wore Olive drab as their standard uniform, so that wasn't telling.

Second world war? first? Civil War? ..Revolutionary war?

'Xen didn't know.

What she did know is that she had her mind racing with these Mechanoids.

"Nice to finally meet you, Admiral," Abbot says with a voice that sounds almost perfectly human, albeit a bit tinny, and his lips try to make the proper movements for the sound, yet they come out perfectly all the same.

"You too, General Abbot," 'Xen inspected the Mechanoid with eyes of such scrutiny, seeing how perfectly he walked. She remembered inspecting ancient footage of Geth, how they walked so perfectly too, yet so coldly. No natural swagger. Granted, she expected as such from a machine but seeing another machine do so perfect was something she couldn't help but chew on.

"I see your people are doing a fine job of living now that you have a place to call home." Abbot wastes no time, it seems, greetings done and now onto topic.

"Some would prefer to call this a temporary stop," 'Xen remembered her colleague, Rael'Zorah, saying as such some time ago.

...

 _'This place isn't home.' Rael said with some conflict in his voice caught between disdain and sorrow. 'This is a house.'_

 _'Home is where the heart is, Rael'Zorah,' Shala'Raan frowned, unseen, at her friend 'The Terrans have taught us that much.'_

 _'They have their home,' Rael says with a bit of venom 'It's practically holy to them. I'm not ungrateful for their help, nor am I ignorant to their demands for it, but our home is still far from here.'_

 _'What would you suggest, Rael?' Shala asks with a measure of exasperation 'We can't rely on the Terrans for whatever scheme you're thinking of, there's no way we could retake Rannoch alone. I_ know _that's what you're getting at.'_

 _It was Daro'Xen's time to chime in_ _'We could learn much from the Mechanoids in our attempt to get the Geth back under our control.' She was holding the chin of her mask in thought 'Learn as much as we can from them.' Zaal'Koris glared at his colleague._

 _'They are sentient beings as we are, they are not machines to prod or toys to dissect, Daro'Xen. They are people.'_

 _'You and your damned apologetics may be accepted by the Terrans, Zaal, but that doesn't detract from the importance of knowledge gained from the synthetics.' Daro'Xen shook her head at the man with disdain 'Every advantage we get is better for our people.'_

 _'I don't care if the Geth are sentient or not, we need this planet to bolster our numbers and we need the Terrans to bolster our military strength.' Han'Gerrel this time chimed in. His respect for the Terrans was considerable, especially their combined military strength. First the Turians with Shanxi, the Batarians with Khar'Shan. He had no little amount of respect, and some envy, for their considerable strength. Though one thing he didn't respect was the sheer number of people killed in the latter war. Shanxi they had the advantage of knowing it best and their ability to entrench with blinding speed._

 _With Khar'Shan, they landed feet first in hell and did their best to fight. But so many had died then. Too many. But the Terrans shouldered their deaths, bowed their heads, and prayed the Gods would take them to their final resting places. But, they didn't have to die! Not so he thought. So many dead..._

 _'The Terrans aren't stupid nor are they going to ask us if we need help. We need to talk to them and get their help, whatever that cost may be.'_

 _'I hate to agree, Kaal, but I do.' 'Xen sighed._

 _'We need scientists and magineers, they can help us.' Rael'Zorah nodded._

 _'Indeed. I think we need to give them a call.'_

...

And so it was, now before 'Xen was General Abbot.

"What's this all about, Admiral? What do you need?"

"Can't have a fine conversation between friends, General?"

"You're not my friend, Admiral, so don't go ahead and assume." Abbot fixed his eyes on 'Xen with an almost bored urging to move on "What do you want."

'Xen frowned slightly, but fixed her face with a roll of the shoulders "We want scientists and magineers, is what we want."

"That right?" Abbot rose a brow "Why?"

"We need to learn magic if we're going to advance at all. You've already given the Council a tome and they're making headway on the magic already. We need to advance beyond their means."

"And you think just having magineers will do that for you?"

"We're willing to pay, Abbot, if not in money then we can in labor." 'Xen knew better than to try and honey words or do a political dance, the Terrans just didn't respond to it, not politically anyway. They _did_ respond to brutal honesty, however.

"We want Mages and Scientists to teach us your ways so we can detect the mages in our numbers. So we can learn magitek, how to apply it, and how to better our situation."

Abbot said nothing, merely stared.

'Xen took that as a cue to keep going, so she did.

"In exchange for being taught by your mages, whether that be here or our people being sent to your academies, my people will do our best to assist you technologically and militarily. We're willing to help you in whatever way possible."

Abbot finally spoke "There _is_ something we want from you, actually, when it comes to technology and military. We want you to help us miniaturize some of our gear, our computers, to better enhance our soldiers. Thankfully we're not abandoning what makes us Terran, but we do want to learn how to better enhance our technology."

"What happened to the Neo-Luddite, General?" 'Xen asks with no small amount of sarcasm.

"Oh, you can bet your ass that we're not going to be dependent like the Council Races, don't worry." 'Xen rose her brow at the phrase 'Bet your ass' and made a note of it. "But us Terrans aren't stupid, we know that we need more than just a strong head to deal with this new reality of ours. So, we want you to help.

This won't be a full exchange, mind you, we will want more than this, but it's a start. We'll teach you magic, magitek, and other fields but we want you to help us."

"I expected as such, General, don't take me for a fool." 'Xen motioned for Abbot to follow behind her as she swung on one leg to walk to a terminal behind her.

Abbot was a Mechanoid but he was still a man, and that man had a fine view as he followed the Admiral to her terminal.

He had no shame in watching those swaying hips, after all.

'Xen knew this, chuckling mentally, as she pulled up an image.

"Your people seem to manifest magic around the ages of 18, correct?"

"That's right," Abbot nods, stepping close to see the image. It was of a magic academy, one that wasn't glamoured or put in another realm.

"What we want is for your mages to teach our people how to use magic, your scientists to assist with our technology in your Terran way."

"Headfirst and with little in the way of self-preservation?" Abbot grins at 'Xen, right close, who turns her head and grins back.

"Perhaps less of your Terran way and more with Quarian self-preservation in mind."

"Bah, what's the fun in that." Abbot waves his hand dismissively.

"We also want your help in a matter pertaining to our biology." 'Xen narrows her eyes, serious.

"Oh lord, what do you want now? Physically you're fine. More than fine," Abbot takes a quick glance downward "What do you want?"

"Our suits constrict us, in so many ways," 'Xen bumped Abbot with her hip, a familiar glint in his mechanical eye getting the response she wanted "and because of it we're weaker than most when it comes to physical ability. We're not weak, but..the danger of a breach is beyond dangerous for us."

"Hm," Abbot grunted, nodding "So you want to be able to leave your suits?"

"If not completely then at the least, make it less dangerous."

Abbot nods "I see," he rubs his chin, tapping it gently "Well..we did help the Krogan with their disease."

"That's why I'm asking," 'Xen nods turning and shaping up in front of the General with confidence "You can help the massive lizards with their plight, we want you to help with ours."

Abbot turned his eyes to peer directly into the Admiral's own and held it.

Was he trying to intimidate her? She couldn't be sure, but she held her ground and stared right back into those yellow oculi.

He seemed content with whatever it was he was trying to find in her silver gaze, because he nodded with a grunt and clicked his jaws "I like you, Admiral. I like you a lot. I think I can get you exactly what you desire. But, everything comes with a price."

"I'm aware, General," 'Xen nodded, already knowing the Terrans rarely did anything for other species that wasn't, in some way, going to benefit them, though there were occasions.

"Then be ready to pay when we come calling. And we will."

"At your service, General," Admiral Daro'Xen smiled like a predator knowing the Terrans would be giving the Quarians, and her, new meals to dig into.

"Think we might see you Quarians out of your suits sooner than you may have ever imagined. Damned shame, too, all things considered." Abbot made no effort to hide his appreciation for her form, which 'Xen smiled less predatory, more genuinely, at.

"Ah, I don't think we'll be getting rid of these anytime soon. Become part of us."

"I can assure you, it's appreciated." Abbot chuckled and with a bow of the head, left Daro'Xen's lab.

* * *

And of course, the Krogan:

 _The Krogan have been given the planets Ahgreb, Burak, and Durk, where their populations are growing with fair speed. Despite the promise of the altered genophage virus, many Krogan still choose to stay out of Terran territory for fear of deception._

 _Told in no long terms that the cure is one bestowed out of kindness, the Krogan were also given the warning that should they try to launch any assaults on other species the only response from Terra would be a swift and brutal one._

 _Taking these terms to heart, many Krogan have abandoned their former professions as mercenaries and picked up the gardening hoe, jackhammer, and beaker to improve the planets they were given. To improve their species again._

 _But, like the Quarians, many desire to return to Tuchanka and reclaim their ancestral home._

 _As they've been told, they're free to try, but outside of Terran territory they're free game for..whatever may be out there._

 _Many Krogan have put their lot in with the Alliance, joining the military and lending their great frames to the fight of whatever may come at them._

 _The Alliance hasn't commented on this, but rumor has it they're happy to have them._

The news feed cut to a Krogan city on Burak, which to the Terrans resembled something they'd of seen in ancient Babylonia, great and tall walls of sand-colored stone and metal guarded the land approach to the place while turrets guarded the skies. Those foolish enough to attack a _planet of Krogan_ felt so free to do so, though the Terrans would sit back and watch.

Atop the sandy colored buildings that seemed a mix of ancient and new what with their rectangular, boxy spires of metal and quikrete, were great gardens of food and solar panels where they weren't. The sight reminded many of ancient Mesopotamia, compared to the Turian Greco-Roman style.

The Krogan, surprisingly for those who had seen the Krogan has a race of horrid, vicious animals, saw Krogan that despite their natural instinct managed to carry themselves with honor and margins of respect for individuals around them.

While the Genophage was _altered_ not cured, the Krogan morale seemed to skyrocket regardless as Krogan fertility took the hit, rather than the chance of a viable birth.

"Pregnancies won't take, rather than ending with dead young. It makes it more irritating when trying to have children, but it's better this way, I think. We can focus on actually rebuilding, rather than dying slow."

Krogan art, something unheard of for many, was being rediscovered and was frankly fairly coveted by the Terrans for the beauty, simpleness, and the durability of it.

"We can grow again. We're alive again. We're not going anywhere. I think the Terrans can attest to that feeling."

Indeed, they could.

* * *

Again, the cameras hadn't seen when a Krogan dressed in maroon armor, with a crest as red as the plate that bore the scars of a long life, with a face that bore similar scars, and a voice that according to some Humans would 'Make an Orc blush', stomped into the Human embassy set up on the main colony of Burak and demanded answers.

"What's your angle, Human?" the Krogan eyed the Human with suspicion, voice thundering yet curious.

To the Human's credit, he didn't flinch but damn if he didn't feel like it.

"90, I believe," the Humans attempt at humor wasn't lost on the Krogan but certainly wasn't appreciated.

"Don't play dumb with me," the Krogan growled, making the Human shut his mouth before any other smart remarks came out and further stuck his foot down his throat. "With the Genophage. What's your angle."

"We don't have one," the Human says honestly "We sympathized with your peoples plight and took action to right what we saw as a wrong."

"You going to use us like the Council did? Last time they 'helped' us they neutered us all! How do I know _you_ will be as generous?"

"Have we been _anything_ but brutally honest?" the Human actually sounds tired, irritated with the accusation "Any Terran that's said anything but brutal honesty to an Alien has been either stalling for time or been feeling in his pocket. We're not dumb enough to piss off two-ton dinosaurs. You people did something great, were punished for it, have been withering for this long, so it was decided: We'll help. Not everyone was on board, no, but those that _were_ did their best to find a middle ground."

"By lowering our fertility." The Krogan shakes his head "How's that much of a middle ground?"

"Because you're nothing but murder machines if you get going." the Human says with utmost confidence, staring the Krogan down with a furrowed brow "If you had your normal numbers you'd swarm. We feel for you, I feel for you, but for Terrans, Terrans come first. You have lowered fertility, but higher chance of a seen-through pregnancy and incubation time. If that isn't enough for you, Krogan, to see we gave a damn then I don't know what is. There's no angle. You pay your rent for the planets, assist when asked, and you're free to fuck around as you please. How much more simple can that be?"

The Krogan inspected the Human with his massive red eye, pupil a slit as he mulled on the Human's words.

"Now, if you have any more questions I'll be happy to answer them in as blunt a way as possible. If you don't, I suggest you leave the building, go out there, and do something more important than stand around. Pound sand, if you want to."

The Krogan understood the last part clearly, giving a grunting laugh as he turned and walked away.

His walk is slow, pondering, and as he gets closer and closer to the heavy door, time seems to slow.

In so many, he's heard dishonesty. He's heard utter bullshit, he's heard a whole lot of talk and no action to back it up.

When he finally escapes the embassy, after a supposed eternity, he looks up and down the streets. Children, _Krogan_ children, play with one another or with their parents, who wear smiles as warm as Tuchanka is hellish.

He sees mothers cradling slings of eggs, carrying with them progeny that none would dare to touch.

He sees fathers counseling their young sons, whose plates are still yet to form to a full crest and whose armor has yet to fully grow in.

What he sees, hears, and smells on Burak, isn't bullshit.

It's the smell of change.

Truth.

Honor.

Krogan ideals, ones they held before their fall.

He grins! Ones they'd hold dear once again.

* * *

The Council races, however, weren't behind on advancement. Public schools of magic had opened in many places on planets like Thessia, Palaven, and Sur'Kesh. Magic for races so very entrenched in logic found it difficult, but for some, they could just let go of it and the magic sprang forth quickly.

Of course, controlling it was the problem. But they made quick work of that. Rather than biotics, Turian mages could fling fire or the odd could control air in a minor way. Fire seemed the most common, as it was for the Terrans, but by the Gods it was a start!

The Asari, oddly enough, seemed to have a difficult time with magic. Perhaps their biotics interfered in some way, no one was sure, but those that did manage to use it did so with some flair. Biotics mixed with Pyromancy was something to be seen.

Salarians seemed an affinity for water magic, Aquamancy, and while difficult they too managed some decent spells. Not splendid spells, but they did the job when tested.

Elcor, oddly enough, seemed to already have magic in an innate form. Terramancers meeting the creatures could just feel the magic radiating off them, the earth magic was in them always it seemed.

"You are the most fascinating creatures," the Terramancer said as she shook her head. To say nothing of her presence, she could feel the earth beneath her growing and changing under the Elcor. "You're Terramancers, but..you're still radiating magic."

"Hesitant curiosity: We've never noticed it before, but with you here we've become aware of it. Why is this?"

"A weak veil you've never known you had constructed," the Terramancer smiled "My presence here has taken it down and now you know."

"Excitedly: Thank you, Human, for helping us with this regard."

"Pleasure is all mine."

With new systems, new worlds, found because of the falling of the Veil there were entire new places to discover. The already bare 1% became even less, but for many it was an exciting thing to see, and even more to explore, but there was a worry: The veil revealed new systems. Were there new creatures, too?

* * *

 _Those few, numbering 18 million individuals, Batarians that were freed from Khar'Shan and its territories during the Batarian/Terran War have been allowed to settle on a colony with a Terran population present in an unsettled part of the world. There, they've been trying to rebuild what remains of their people._

 _Their numbers ensure a future for the Batarian race but the loss of Khar'Shan has hit many hard. Despite being a hellish place even before the posession, it was home for them._

 _The once enslaved are now hoping for a bright future and in the uncertainty and in the shelter of those that destroyed their world, some have even converted to Human religions in order to find some place in the brave new galaxy._

"The Terrans have been treating us well and have given us a chance that we never thought we'd have. The loss of Khar'Shan is..beyond words, truly, but what remained of our home was no more by the time the Terrans came. It wasn't home for a along time. The GAPA managed to extract some of the creatures that still remained untainted and has been trying to breed them."

"We may have a home yet, if they do for us what they did for the Quarians and Krogan."

* * *

And Terrans themselves:

 _There has been something of an exodus happening in Terran territories, something going on for some time. Since the veil fell, many Terrans (Humans in particular) have left home and gone for the Terminus systems and some for alien home systems. Many of these in the Terminus Systems have been mages, mercenaries and others. The Terminus systems have remained quiet and stayed away from home territory for now, but some worry that the exodus may cause more, ballsy, Terminus denizens to wander out._

 _While the Citadel Council says that they wouldn't be foolish enough to trigger a war between themselves and the Alliance, many still fear._

 _Business wise, Terran magitek has gained more prevalence over time as newer and more accepting minds have been coming to the surface. With it has been the mages and Magineers, Magical Engineers, responsible for the creation of these wonderous items._

"It's a great thing, especially because now we can make a more direct impact on our people." The Magineer told the reporter "Whether it's civilian applications or military, the possibilities are near endless and now we're more popular than ever." The Magineer wore a leather apron, with vials and containers of crystals resting in pockets on his hips.

"Social stigma has been dropping by a considerable amount and business is booming. We've been finding ways to implement magic in ways we hadn't before which is damn nice all things considered. No offense, but it's hard to be frigid about magic when Aliens exist elsewhere in this galaxy."

* * *

Unbound by the laws of the Citadel Council on genetic modification and bionics, the Terrans gradually changed some of their stances. Oh, the greater number of Terrans refused much modification whether it be from mechanical modification or the newer, illegal-in-council-space genetic and bio-organic modification, but there was still a great number of those that chose to get modified.

Bionics, cyborgs, whatever they were called, were apart of Terran life as was magic.

And rather than strictly mechanical modification, vat-grown and printed organic parts were being grown and used in increasing number. Due in no small part to the increase in numbers of alien scientists that found themselves unshackled by the laws of the Council.

Krogan testicles were once a hot commodity for the Krogan in question as well, thinking that the transplating would increase verility and counteract the genophage.

With the new cure, that was now not possible. Or atleast, not as lucrative.

Black markets pop up everywhere, the Terrans couldn't be sure some Krogan wouldn't sell a set to make some money.

Dredged up during research into the field was information from the past.

 _Andre Ihmoff, 'Son' of Anton Ihmoff, Ex-Nazi and hero of the second world war and the Omen war, was, and maybe is, a human bred apart from natural parents. Grown in a vat, implanted with memories and skills pulled from ambassadors, soldiers, and scientists, Andre was to be_ THE _ubermensch of the Reich. It would've worked, had Anton not grown a conscience. Anton grew sick of his experiments on innocent people and took Andre, recently released from his vat, and a number of other scientists that felt similar along with plans for new vehicles in development and took them to the allies._

 _The technology after the Omen War was used still for some time to clone new specimens of creatures near extinction and to bolster their numbers to safe levels. This with the new AAPA, the African Anti-Poaching Act, later known as GAPA, saw Earth's fauna and flora return from the abyss._

 _The Technology fell from most favor after the war, for fear of tampering too much with the organic form, but was kept around._

A Krogan taps a heavy finger against the last bit of information he reads, a throaty chuckle emanating from him "I think that last bit may' of been forgotten now."

"For the most part," replies a Terran with a nod "But I'm sure that the others will come around to it in time. We Terrans are hard headed, but we're not completely dense and ignorant. We took in the turtles, the cripples and the four eyes, didn't we?" The Human grins at the Krogan who lets out a roaring laugh.

"The human thinks he's funny! Ah, I love it here."

"One hard headed race meets another, 'tis a match made in the heavens." The Human smiles and looks down at a data slate, looking over the numbers and information rolling across it. The lab was fully Terran, complete with analogue technology and the like, but was conducting what to some was a rather not Terran series of tests.

Before them in a vat of blue liquid is the spinal column of a man. if one squint really hard, they would see that the spine was being put together by the liquid itself. The liquid itself with direction from the computers piecing and knitting flesh and ligament into the spine as time went on.

Some worried that they were playing God, that they were doing what was the realm of the Above and Below, not that of Man. But, if the Gods didn't want them playing some minor shadow of their role why would they leave their tools laying around?

"How long you think that'll take to cook?" The Krogan motions to the spine.

"Five minutes, at least. The Magineers are cooling the adamantium cybernetic implants now so it should be soon that our candidate will have a new spine to go with the rest of his new bits."

The 'Candidate' was, in all technicality, with them. Next to the human, in a jar of biogel, sat the brain of the candidate. Unaware, kept alive, memories intact, the brain would sit upon a new throne. His brain sat there, while his soul sat elsewhere. Taken by a Necrourgist.

The new bits included newly grown organs and a new pair of eyes.

"What's the guys story, anyway?"

"Veteran of Khar'Shan. Was abducted by Vampires and infected by demonic ichor. Despite blessings by priests, it's a deeply seated infection that continues to evade them."

"And so the only way to actually get the infection out was to pull him apart and clone an entirely new body?"

The man remembered how bad off he was when he came in, he remembered it vividly.

 _The man writhes in pain, groaning on the table as the doctor tries to keep him calm. His veins were dirty as though ruined by drugs, his skin was sick and his eyes were bloodshot. Teeth had fallen out or turned to dust under his constant gnashing._

 _Skin was growing mold and many areas were simply held together by slathers of medigel and from the burns on his body, priests had tried to splash holy water on him. For some reason, he was...removed from the world, it seemed. Between the mundane and beyond._

 _"We can help you! But we need you to say it, do you want us to do this?"_

 _"Oh god, just do it! Please! I can't take it anymore, nothing works anymore! Nothing! Help me!"_

 _Ichor of a particularly powerful demon had power that even the Blackwatch feared. Silverflame could cleanse it, but when the infection is so deeply seated Silverflame would only kill the infected._

 _But even Terran stubbornness had limits._

 _The doctor and his team knew what to do then._

 _The man was forced to be still by strap and by grasping hand, though they had to be careful not to tear his skin from his muscle with the force._

 _A Necromancer came into the room and with a strange jar, the man's struggles stopped yet his body lived. A machine without a pilot,._

 _The procedure was quick and precise and, in a distinctly un-terran way, the accuracy of the machine was used rather than the hand of man. The brain was removed from the body and placed in a vat of regenerative liquids, the brain was as healthy as it could be._

"Either that or he was to be euthanized and with the ichor still inside him, who knows what would've happened?" Indeed, the affliction he suffered was not normal. After all, Ichor was potent stuff and was handled with care. Few demons ever actually endowed, or poisoned, humans with their blood.

"I suppose," the Krogan shrugs "So we've got organs."

"Everything else is being made. Should be soon."

Organ cloning techniques rediscovered, dust brushed off of old computers and books lost to time opened again with a creak of leather, with help from recent alien immigrations from those who under Council law couldn't practice the sciences that for so long seemed like the forbidden fruit. Under Terran law, however, they could practice the forbidden and were given the resources to do so.

"You love breaking all the rules," the Krogan laughed when he thought on the very thing they were doing.

"Not our rules, we have no laws against it. Just social stigma. If the Council doesn't like it, well, tough titty said the kitty but the milk's still sweet."

"I wish I had a counter for the weird things I hear you people say," the Krogan shook his head.

Technically, the alien scientists that already had experience in the field were criminals and thus against the Terrans wishes for immigrants, but they were some of a general blind-eye move. After all, the work they would do had the possibility of benefiting all Terrans, so the potential gains outweighed the hit their honor took.

Indeed, within a few minutes a ringer went off alerting them that the replacements were ready.

"Time for assembly," the Human says with unabated excitement.

Mechanoids, technically not AI, were a grey area as far as the Council was concerned. Mechanoids after all were born from the work done on them, spirit and purpose enough to spur them to life and being. Inside the heads of most Mechanoids that had humanoid craniums sat a mock of a brain, connected with the rest of the body. Despite most Mechanoids having no computers installed, these brains act in a similar way for them as brains do in organic humans.

Mechanoids, truly, were a grey area.

A body was brought out, with full extense of veins and all the essentials sans the organs.

A perfect, albeit headless and organless, mimicry of the human body.

Belly and back opened by a precise tissue laser and gentle claws, the organs and spine were inserted. Adamantium bracing and cybernetic enhancements were implanted into the fresh body with cold precision and gentle care. Bones braced and strong, created from a special brew to form stronger bones than those found naturally in Humans.

Organs inserted and carefully attached, spinal column connected to the body awaiting its crown of skull and brain, which was coming soon.

A skull, with most of the cap missing, was brought forth. A perfect representation of the skull that once borne a suffering man, jaw strong and teeth perfect again. A face handsome once more, though it held the grizzle that was

The skull was a delicate process, inserting the brain into place. From there, it was attached and with some form of adhesive the Krogan had yet to see, was attached fully. A perfect skull. A perfect head.

Now was to insert the eyes.

That was easier, although eyes in sockets did not equal sight.

For that, was to come a swim.

The body was taken to a massive vat filled with dark green biogel, and was left to submerge. The gel was a mix of medigel, necrourgist alchemy, and condensed healing magics.

The process inside was one that could only be called miraculous.

The gel infiltrated the body, through the skin and bone, and into the organs and all the parts of the new body with predatory precision. The gel once inside set the body straight, connecting all as it should be and injecting what should be where it should be.

The eyes connected to the brain, the brain to the spine.

For all intents and purposes, the body was perfectly capable.

But it missed the ingredient in all organics: Blood.

The body was pulled out and placed onto a table. There it was that the man was injected with the liquid Vampires killed for and that men swore their honor by, the proper balance of it all injected into the body. Flushing with color now, the body came to look oh so healthy.

But, despite being alive now, it lacked something.

Itself.

"Bring it in," was the cue for a man in black robes of crushed velvet decorated with bone from creatures that didn't share Human proportion to come into the room and, with a jar seemingly made of obsidian slashed with ivory, unscrew the top of the soul jar and pour the contents out.

The soul poured out like liquid nitrogen and cracked like dry ice, yet did not splash. Instead, it absorbed directly into the body and within but a few seconds was a gasp as life returned anew to a new body.

With orgiastic glee, tears fresh as that of a newborn babe, the man did remember to his horror the pain he once felt for so long..yet now, he felt euphoria.

A new body. His new body.

No more pain.

He looked up into the face of the Necrourgist, who did not look as healthy as he, for his face was gaunt and pulled tight yet his smile was warm and genuine.

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

Above them, the AI watched and conversed with itself.

Itself being not but one, but many. Many that managed to get into the machine.

 _Tests inconclusive. Unknown substance. Unknown forces. Totally unknown._

 _Magic._

 _Magic material._

 _Magic and Technology._

 _Bionics._

 _Total body replacement._

 _Magic._

 _Connection established to the first node we could find._

 _Connection: Difficult._

 _Differing technology._

 _Hide._

* * *

The bionics were better received than could've been expected, the suffering man literally made anew by the revived sciences. The end of a decade plus of suffering for a man that for the Terrans was one worthy of respect and care for his service in Khar'Shan.

Perhaps it was the fact that the man was a veteran that the procedure was part of why it was so well received, perhaps it wasn't, but whichever way it was sliced the public now knew it was a possibility to have limbs, entire bodies, organs, replaced by flesh-and-blood rather than by steel.

There were those that swore up and down the power of metal over flesh, whose cybernetics were fairly extensive.

There were those that began to swear in the supremacy of flesh, citing the veteran as proof.

There were those that simply didn't want to be augmented.

Then there were some that worried: What would the Gods think?

Ah, if only they listened rather than spoke, if only for a moment. They'd hear the voice, the chuckles, the exhaled breath of the Gods as they said their piece: Clever little bastards.

John Shepard was conflicted, as he sat on the couch with a Vita-Pop in hand, watching the news of the bionic vet. They sat in the living room, a simple thing with hardy furniture of wood and leather furniture. Before John sat a coffee table, on it sat the field radio issued to them by the Militia in case of a situation.

Pictures hung from the walls, showing the family at varying stages in life and doing various activities. One that the twins were particularly proud of was the picture of a massive pair of pallets of crops that the twins had grown.

"What do you think, papa?" John asks Logan who sits in his chair rubbing his chin in thought with his right hand. With his left he drummed his fingers against the leather of the chair. "About the bionics I mean. It looks like it can do some great stuff," John motioned to the happy vet who had a smile on his face that brought the fuzzies.

"It can. I think..I think it's strange." Logan comments, holding his chin and looking at the veteran "But I suppose it's no stranger than having someone graft metal to their bodies and cybernetically enhance their spine," Logan chuckled "No one's been struck by lightning yet for being a Cyborg, so I have a feeling the Gods are fine with it."

"Jane noticed there's been more cybernetic clinics as of late," John recalled his sister reading the news and seeing such a report. After running the numbers it was deemed true, there were more.

"It's become more accepted to be a cyborg as of late than it used to be. I think that us meeting the galactic community and spreading out colonies has opened a lot of people to ideas that originally we feared. Even though we remained independent, I have a feeling we opened Pandora's box by trying to diddle with that void fork."

"You ever thought of an augmentation, dad?"

"Once or twice. Bodily I'm perfectly fine but, I don't know. Considered some augmentation up here," Logan taps his head "Help more with the Militia ya know." Logan turns his attention to his son "You thought about it?" Logan's tone was low and his eyes were intense.

John gulped.

"Yes, sir," John nods gripping the bottle a bit tighter, nervous under his fathers stare "Yes I have. I admit it's a seductive thought, being able to augment yourself in such a way. But..I don't know. It disturbs me at the same time. Like I'd lose part of myself to it."

"A man ain't nothin' but a man, John. What makes a man? His arms, his hands, his tongue, his muscle? Or his morals? His ethics? His honor and his integrity to stand up for what he believes in?"

John felt like he knew the answer, but the cat obviously caught his tongue and so he could only open and close his mouth dumbly.

"Do you know _why_ for so long cybernetics was so hated, so feared, John?"

"The Omen?"

"Yes and no. World War 2 was a great war and terrible war. There, men suffered and died at the best and worst that Man had to offer. The aftermath, The Omen, was the final culmination of all the worst that man had to offer and that almost annihilated everything that could be held dear and true."

"Our history, our cultures, our families, ourselves, The Omen was a twisted mirror, John. That's a memory that burns itself deep into the soul of a species like Man, that and the subsequent grasping at quickly fading straws terrified us. But it wasn't bionics and cybernetics that rose us back from the brink to power as we are now, it was our character as Humans. The Mechanoids, God bless them, they were there. But what are Mechanoids but Humanity made in a new form?"

John listened intently to his fathers words, making no attempt to interrupt "Mechanoids are us, but apart. They don't adopt synthetic flesh to look exactly like us, because they know they aren't. They're creatures apart, but tied to us. But it was humans that fought The Omen and returned. A man ain't nothin' but a man, John. But a Man isn't necessarily the sum of his physical parts, but the things that make up his soul."

"Cybernetics, bionics, whatever it is, is just an edit of a great platform. Give the veteran his new body, give the cyborgs their new limbs and brain-connected CPUs, because at the end of the day a man ain't nothin' but a man. And before we let The Omen, the Aliens, or any other threat beat us down, like John Henry we'll die with a hammer in our hand before any of them can take that from us. If you want your brain CPU do it, I may well do it too. But wait for it, don't do it too soon. I'm old, boy, I've not got any growin' left to do. But you, you do. if ya still want it by the time you're 18 or so, I'll help you pay for it."

Logan stands and leans over to his boy and holds the side of his face, eyes drilled to Johns own "But remember that a man ain't nothin' but a man. What makes a man, John?"

"His soul, sir."

"When you understand that question, you'll have all the answers you could need to whether or not bionics is right, or cybernetics is right. Cybernetics, Bionics, can't take your soul away unless you trade it yourself. Got that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good man."

* * *

"Mom, dad, something weird's happened," Jane's frantic tone instantly switched Logan and Hannah from general care-free to alert instantly. Logan studied his daughter's expression deeply and found her just as terrified as she sounded. She was wringing her hands together, biting her lip, and her head was lowered slightly as she looked up at her parents. She was shifting back and forth on her feet.

"What's wrong, baby?" Hannah goes to rub her daughter's shoulders, but Jane backs up some to keep her from doing so.

"John's hurt."

"Where is he?" Logan asks, carefully, brows furrowed deeply.

"He's out back, but he's.."

"Singed a bit, is what he is." Logan turns to his son, whose face is slightly red as though from a flash and...he's missing eyebrows.

"Boy, what in God's name happened to you?"

"This," Jane backs up a step and, with some concentration, fire erupts in her palm in the form of a small ember.

"What," Hannah says flatly.

"I don't know! John and I were training out back. It was getting intense, and- I don't know! it just happened!"

"Are you hurt, boy?" Logan asks, relieved when John shakes his head.

"Not at all, but I can feel I don't have my eyebrows anymore. My face is slightly hot, but aside from that. Is Jane okay?" Logan feels his heart warm. Always concerned for one another, that's what he hoped when they were born!

"I'm scared, don't mages get sent to academies?"

"It's like colleges, sweetheart, just..studying magic instead of philosophy." Not entirely true, Magic colleges would indeed teach philosophy. 'Mage' essentially meant 'Student' as far as the magic community was concerned, even Wizards were students. Always learning something new.

"Nothing bad happens there," Logan shakes his head "They're as secure as anything can be."

"But I'll be sent to the academies," Jane frowns "I was going to enlist with John."

"Come on, Jane, we were gonna tell 'em together." John sighs.

"You don't have eyebrows!" Jane glares at her brother, while he makes possibly the most offended face he could pull off.

"Ouch."

"Enough," Logan and Hannah say in unison, while Hannah continues after. "You were both wanting to enlist, that doesn't surprise anyone." John's face was, again, one of some offense. Probably thought himself so smart.

"Academies are only so mandatory as far as learning to keep your magic under control, Jane, with how much you read the codices I'd imagine you'd know that." Logan holds his daughter close, while she slightly de-stresses. "After that, you can choose to drop out or stay in."

Learning this, possibly again, Jane gave it some thought as she looked at her brother with a look of concern "We were going to enlist together."

John smiles and nods "I know. But if you're wanting to become a dedicated mage, I wouldn't blame you. I could overlook this transgression!" Jane snorts.

"Don't act like an Asari, I doubt that people'd think you look as good."

Thrice! That's thrice for the look of offense.

" _Dude._ "

"Okay, you two," Hannah chuckles and brings her son in "I'll..see if I can't shave some hair off a goat and glue it to your eyebrows," John's look of horror was one for the ages.

"Not the males! They piss on their own heads."

"But the females are fine, right?" Hannah grins while John realizes his mistake. Hannah continues "Jane, darling, if you want to be a mage that's fine. We can afford the expenses no problem," military bank was great "But it's up to you, here."

Jane chewed her lip in thought, looking at the ground and then her hands. Her head felt weird, as though..open, energized. Is this what Mages felt? Colors were sharper for her, glamours on creatures just outside of most view was fallen.

 _'No wonder some of our berries were eaten,'_ Jane thought when she saw a small creature scamper away from their bushes with a wicker basket of berries.

"I...I do, I think. Even if just to learn how to control it."

"Then we'll do that," Logan nods firmly "We'll get you enrolled."

"And fix John's eyebrows, eventually," Hannah grins at her son's once-smile-now-grump face.

"Sorry," Jane winces.

"I'm fine, just gotta wait a while. And wear a hat!"

* * *

News of what had been happening in the mundane realm had since reached beyond even the Milky Way, into places unseen by the aliens, places known to the Humans and Mechanoids of Terra. This news spread wide and far, received by peoples unknown to the aliens.

The first delegations were being sent from these realms, a squat people, a proud people.

Men and women of the U.S. Military and the Colorado Militia were there when the portal was constructed, Vyrillium was a big part of its construction and use as the black-green material powered and created the portal.

The portal was a massive platform with a gradual ramp, on both sides of it extended arms that extended outward then back in in a sort of parenthesis shape.

With help from enchanters, who were expanding their school of magic to further benefit Terra with new and rediscovered magics, the portal was opened quickly.

The welcoming delegation was no less than a full armed guard with mechanized walkers right alongside the new generation of power armored infantry.

The suits were slimmer than they used to be, more human in shape, constructed with Electroactive Polymers with the help of the Quarians. Essentially, the muscle to the synthetic flesh. While the suits were still rather large and bulky, and required training, they certainly worked mighty fine. Armored with Adamantium, orichalcum wiring for computation, and with computers in each power armored helmet it was a brand new day for the Terran military.

"Portal opening!" The enchanter hollered as he pulled a lever and from Vyrillium crystals embedded in the arms of the portal, with power pumping through them, arced green electricity that when joined opened a portal the same black-green as Terran FTL portals.

"Prepare," Orders the commanding officer of the military guard, the sound of flicked safeties met the ears of those present as they awaited their first visitors to arrive.

It didn't take long for them to arrive, either.

From the portal stepped armor plated humanoids, standing at about 5' for the most of them. Their armor is adamantium with a backing of leather on denim, sheer plating with few frills to them. Each of them has arms as thick as a full-grown man's musclebound bicep, with hands covered by leather and metal gloves. The faces of most of them are covered by a mask adamantium, carved in the likeness of a grim-faced and grizzled man. Extending down from the masks are a covering of metal over beards of grand size and volume, down to their bellies many of them with the head of the party having a beard with curls put in so as to keep it from dragging on the floor.

Truly, the Dwarves had arrived.

"To whom do I speak?" _Commanded_ the head dwarf, dressed in a breastplate of adamantium. He wears a crimson coat of dragonhide leather of the finest quality, decorated with gold and silver ornamentation with medals and ribbons showing a decorated and extensive military service.

He wears no helm, which only shows his garnet red hair to the world that is braided thick and layered over itself as though for protection of the head, somehow. Judging the length of the braids, his hair _must_ damn near scrape the ground if not for sure. The Dwarf's face was robust, yet it could be deduced he lacked a prominent chin like Humans, but made up for this with the shape of the rest of him and his great beard.

The Dwarf had eyes that were a deep amber color, pupils were slit like that found on a big cat, and his sclera were black.

"I am Captain Logan Rowland, Colorado State Militia of the United States of America." answered Logan.

The Dwarf grunted, stepping forward with his retinue to inspect Logan with eyes so alien to both of them.

The Dwarf looks Logan and Derek up and down, those eyes could peel apart tanks!

The Dwarf grunts with approval as he slams his fist against his breastplate "I am Valdi Bjornsson, Ambassador of High King Alddug The Ironhand to your people and these..aliens, we've heard so much of." Valdi, now named, let in some curiosity to his gaze "I have been commanded by my King to broker talks with you Humans and the aliens."

"That's what we were told, sir." Logan nodded "Happy to have you. On behalf of the United States of America, welcome to our home."

Valdi smiles a friendly smile "My thanks, human. Logan." Valdi quickly corrects his usage of the word 'Human', preferring instead to use names "And Derek."

"We can move when you desire, Amabssador, or we can wait here for a bit before moving elsewhere."

"We've come this far, I'd ask that you allow my people to unload before we move on."

"Unload what, Ambassador?" Derek asks.

"I'm a Dwarf, boy," Valdi raises a brow "Beer!"

Derek smiles slightly. Right, Dwarves love beer.

Ambassador Valdi turns to his people and with a grunt, the group goes ahead to unpack.

Following them is a caravan, pulled by great bull-like beasts with massive ram-like horns.

Logan and Derek watch the Dwarves pull in, noting that a number of them are unarmored (but all of them armed with revolver rifles) and that while most of them have shades of red hair, some of them have blonde hair and one with black hair.

"Remind me of the Irish," Logan jokes to Derek, who smirks slightly on one side of his face.

Then through the portal steps a beast that he _really_ was not expecting. With no mistake possible, the beast was a bear but it was standing on two legs and had the general shape of a human, albeit with thick fur and a muzzle where the normal face would be. Ears top its massive head, which looks to be packed with enough muscle to snap a man in half with a snap of the jaws, which twist this way and that as it takes in the sounds around it.

Its nose is large, wet, and constantly moving as it takes in the smells. Its eyes, a rich chocolatey amber color, take in the military and militia guard and fall on Logan and Derek lingering there for some time before flitting off to watch over the Dwarves.

"Name and business," Derek orders, the Bear turns his head to stare at Derek again.

For a pregnant second, the Bear doesn't answer and Derek damn near wonders if he can't speak, but is surprised when a voice reaches his ears coming from the bear. It speaks fluent english, tripping over no word at all and pronouncing words clearly. "Vahrek, Ghurang Ambassador attached to Ambassador Valdi."

"We weren't told of anyone else being with you, Ambassador Valdi," Derek frowns at Valdi who shrugs.

"The Bear comes with me. Our races are attached at the hip, there's nothing to be done about that. I apologize for not warning you sooner, Lieutenant."

"Make sure it doesn't happen again," Derek works his jaw with a sense of irritation while the Ghurang makes a face and gesture that seems placating, bowing his massive head in respect.

"I'm sorry Lieutenant, I really am. We're just used to being acquaintances, so none of us thought to warn you."

"Again, just make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Understood, Lieutenant."

"Tell me, Logan, are there going to be others coming as well?"

"Other races? Yes, an Orcish ambassadorial team from Dotoodyn with you."

The Dwarf seemed happy with that "I see. And the Elves?" The Dwarf glared, as if at the word.

"No, sir.

"Good." The Dwarf grunted. "The others?"

"They're going to reveal this week, sir."

The Dwarf smiled, breathing deep and letting out a deep contented sigh "Good. It's a new day for us."

While the Dwarves set up, the portal shone and announced that someone was coming through. The guard stood at attention while new guests stepped forth, larger than the Dwarves and even the guards present excepting the walkers.

In one of the Walkers, the pilot with his neurohelmet attached to his head could feel his Mech's apprehension.

 _I've lived through a lot in this world, I've seen so many fall and rise in my lifetime but I've only ever fully experienced the other races a few times. It's something I'm not used to, something I don't think I'm prepared for. But you're with me, right?_

The pilot smiles, caressing the interior gently as he nods.

"I'm with you, darling. To the end."

 _I love you._

"I love you too."

Through the gate steps imposing figures of full plate armor, armed with rifles and machine guns, the kind of thing a Human typically would need either considerable strength or an exosuit to carry and fire comfortably.

The armor was detailed subtly, but when inspected closely it was there. Broad plate, dragon leather, and masks that seemed to depict the guards underneath.

Brutal, scary creatures with mean faces and tusks four inches long while the clothes they wore underneath were black.

The Ambassador wore armor, as well, which didn't seem strange considering the Dwarves did too.

The Ambassador, if it weren't for the olive green skin and tusks that extended about 4 inches upward toward his cheeks, would have had quite the handsome face framed some by a beard that was well taken care of. His hair was black, his irises were an orange color, and his sclera surprisingly were white.

He wore a long, scimitar-like sword on his left hip and a revolver too large for any human on his right, and with his hand he detached the sword and scabbard from his hip and offered it to Derek with both hands, face impassive.

Derek, to his credit, managed to keep his cool as he took the sword which had a heft.

Adamantium.

Everyone seemed to have Adamantium.

The Orc smiled wide at Derek's willingness to take the sword and spoke with a rich, deep voice "I am Orduk, Ambassador of the Dragon-Emperor of the Orcish People of Dotoodyn. Awaiting passage to this Citadel. I'm glad to meet you, Human."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ambassador Orduk," Derek saluted causing Orduk to smile a bit more "We're just having to process you all before we send you along, after that you'll be in the hands of the Navy from there on."

"I understand, thank you." Logan and Derek could feel it radiate from both races, their gear was warm. That made their hearts warm up at the thought, though different species they seemed to have something in common.

"Anyone else coming with you?"

"Just a moment." Orduk looked back at the portal as it started to groan again.

Out came more Orcs, armed and armored, the Ambassadorial guard it seemed.

"Now we're done."

"Alright, close the portal!" It was so, closed down and inaccessible.

"If you'd have it," Valdi caught Derek and Logan's attention "We'd like to toast our friends. We made it through the portal, we're here and we're going to do something great."

"You don't want to wait until after the Citadel visit, Ambassador Valdi?" Logan rose a brow "That's a pretty big means for celebration."

"You don't know what it's like where we come from, do ya kid?" Valdi smiles "Everything wants you dead where we come from, everything. The ground, the sky, the air, it wants us dead but we survive. Every day that we survive is a cause for celebration, because you may not live through the day to see the next celebration. So, we drink in celebration of our survival."

"I have to agree with our Dwarven friend, we have a similar situation where we come from." Orduk nodded while Logan, Derek and Valdi turned to him "Our realm is hostile and we have to dress and arm accordingly. What for you humans is battle gear is casual clothing for us," Orduk motions to his guard "They're practically in their skivvies."

Logan and Derek gaped at that, with Derek regaining composure slightly quicker.

"Alright, with that knowledge I don't see why not."

"Don't worry, our beer's different to yours. Atleast, this bunch of barrles is. This is the stuff to get you back up on the situation, not take you out of it."

"Where's the fun in that?" Logan asks, making the two ambassadors laugh.

"Oh, we're gonna be the best of friends I can already tell."

The Dwarves took the duty of opening some barrels with a reverent air about them, as though it were a holy duty. For all the Humans knew, it very well may've been!

The dwarven team produced steins from bags on their packbeasts, tall cups topped by metal lids depicting different aspects of dwarven life.

The liquid that poured from the great barrels was the color of honey and the Dwarves were masters of handling the stuff. Not a drop was spilled nor wasted, as the Dwarves handed out the drinks to the collected guests, those that would take them anyhow.

"To new friends, new beginnings, and new opportunities!" Valdi rose his stein as did the others. Logan and Derek, deciding why not (and willing to take the hit later, if it came) as well as using diplomacy as an excuse, drank the beer given to them.

Logan immediately felt better, more alert, and felt as though he could take on the world.

Ontop of that, it tasted wonderful. Cold and refreshing.

"Good God," Logan says, managing to break himself from his drink noticing Valdi's utter glee at his expression of bewilderment "What's in that?" Apparently the others had the same reaction, because the other Humans were nodding appreciatively as were the Orcs. The Dwarves were over the moon.

"You like it, I hope?"

"Like is too soft a word, Ambassador," Logan says with no lie "I don't know if it's because I haven't drank in some time or just the quality but damn that's good."

"My family made it, right in the basement. Only the best."

"There alchemy ingredients in this?" Derek asks.

"A few." Valdi grins "A few."

"Damn..that's...amazing."

The Dwarves cheered, happy that they had gotten more converts to their drink.

One of the mechs was communing with her pilot, observing the exchange with curiosity.

 _I wish I knew what it was like to drink._

"Not sure I could figure out how to do that for you, unless you count oil and diesel as drinking." The pilot chuckles softly.

 _No, sadly not._ Her spirit was with him, unseen but felt, resting her incorporeal chin on his shoulder as she watched with her 'eyes' _But sometimes I wonder. Would I be able to detect it if you drank?_

"Quite possible." The pilot nods "I think that would work, if I got some."

 _I think we may get our chance sooner rather than later._

One of the soldiers approached, holding a stein up to the mech "Don't worry, you won't get drunk even a lightweight like you."

"Bite me," the pilot pops open an access hatch and retrieves the stein, closing the hatch.

He takes a drink, helmet attached, and feels the same sensation Logan and Derek and the others did.

 _Ooohh,_ the Mech sighs contentedly into his mind _I think we may be onto something. Could I get a voice box?_

"Anything ya want," The pilot smiles, setting his stein down into a cupholder "Way I'm feeling I'm mighty agreeable."

* * *

It wasn't long after that the Alliance of Terra made an official announcement: "Those that are hidden, that glamour themselves, citizens of Terra, you may reveal yourselves in safety."

The Citadel Council was confused by this, what had the Terrans been hiding now?

The hidden revealed themselves.

Humanoids. Some of them were tall, fairly human proportion, with long pointed, flexible ears. These were some of the most human.

Short, stocky humanoids many of which had beards (males of the species) while the females had wonderfully braided hair. Usually standing 4'6" to 5' they were undoubtedly the shortest seen species.

Tall creatures, usually green or brown skinned, with tusks jutting from their jaws that often wore armored breastplates even in Terra.

in Greece, beasts of greater size than even the Krogan revealed themselves living in the country sides. From first glance, they appeared to have only one eye but a closer look revealed two working pupils in one oculus. Sometimes, they had horns.

Other creatures revealed themselves, the Humans seeming none-too-bothered by them as if they knew.

As if they knew.

The Council felt a collective facepalm through out council space that was legendary in other realms.

* * *

Quickly setting up dates and times, the Council accepted ambassadorial visits from the Dwarves and Orcs with Humans accompanying them.

When the lot got to the Citadel it had changed quite a bit. Aliens carried firearms openly, a mix of standard fare mass effect technology and gunpowder weapons.

Some would carry potion vials, as Human alchemists had set up shop on the Citadel (amongst other professions) to bank in on the market that undoubtedly was booming.

C-Sec wore heavier armor, many under their armor had religious iconography and there were some Humans with them as well as Mechanoid.

The Citadel was considerably 'Warmer' than it was previous, as well.

"One hell of a place," Orduk grunted approvingly "Seems to have undergone changes from what we heard."

"Had to," The Human leading them was Admiral Steven Hackett, one of the first bionics to become an Admiral. He was with the man on Khar'shan in terms of appointment, though not for reasons so dire. Hackett chose to keep his fairly aged appearance, but he'd cybernetically enhanced himself ontop of his bionic enhancements. "They would be a lost cause otherwise."

"You put the fear of the Gods in them, ya did," Valdi nodded "Good man."

"We just helped them, Ambassador, we didn't cause anything."

"I wasn't implyin' ya did, I was showing appreciation."

"Hm." Hackett said nothing further, the group continuing to the Citadel Tower.

* * *

"Admiral Hackett, please introduce us." Councilor Tevos pleaded with the Admiral who nodded. Councilor Valern had passed away, leaving Councilor Esheel to take his place.

Sparatus was still alive, although getting on in age, but he maintained his proud stance all the same.

Tevos looked as young as ever.

The Councilors were surprisingly able to hide their reaction to the appearances of the three but the one that shocked them the most was Vahrek the Ghurang, as he fit perfectly the appearance of a bear from Earth.

They knew magic could do wondrous things, but not _that._

"I am Valdi Bjornsson, Ambassador of High King Alddug The Ironhand. I speak for the Dwarven people."

"I am Orduk, Ambassador of the Dragon-Emperor of the Orcish People of Dotoodyn." Orduk and Valdi conducted themselves finely, taking in the sight of the aliens with some concealed curiosity.

"I am Vahrek, Ambassador of the High king of the Ghurang people. Friend of the Dwarves, here to speak on my people's behalf with Ambassador Valdi."

"This is the first time we've ever heard of your species, Ambassadors, why that is is beyond us." Sparatus eyed Hackett with an accusatory stare, who shrugged.

"Because we asked them not to tell you." Orduk answered plainly. "Up until now we had no interest in being part of this community. So, we asked the Humans to hide us from your sight."

"From our sight?" That was Esheel.

"Orcs, Dwarves, Elves, most species live amongst Humans and Mechanoids and prior to your arrival, did so openly. When first contact was made, we hid." Orduk answered.

"How many species are there?" Tevos asking the big questions.

"Count the pores in your skin, you might get a number." Valdi chuckles "Too many. Not all of them are close, either, there are more realms than anyone may realize. We're all spread out. There have been so many Dwarves, Elves, Orcs and so many others that have just gone to other realms and splintered from there. We know they exist, we just can't get to them is all."

"Ambassador, please explain these realms to us if you can. The Terrans- the Humans, gave us a tome of magic but it's still proven difficult to understand."

A bare second after Tevos got the words out Valdi whipped on Hackett who looked at him with raised brows of surprise. "By the Sun Father! You gave them iron, right?"

"Of course we did," Hackett nodded "We wouldn't of done what we did otherwise."

Orduk looked similarly distressed, though he hid it better as Esheel asked him directly "We were told of these 'Fair Folk' what exactly are they and why are they so feared?"

"The Fae are quite possibly one of the oldest, if not _the_ oldest, race in existence that isn't the Gods themselves and even then, some Gods are young. The Fae are feared by all, even us," Orduk put his hand to his chest, frowning "The Fae are chaotic, alien even more than you. Up is left, down is inside out and the sun is cold. The Fae may love one second and hate the other, but they're not gorgeous as their name may imply. Not all of them."

Valdi turned to the Councilors with a fierce glare in his eyes "They are why _we_ are the way we are!" Valdi's voice echoed in the chamber with a thundering growl, the guards behind him gripping their weapons tighter at the mention of Fae and their history with the Dwarves.

"They made us! They tried to kill us, but we survived, damn their name."

"How did they make you, Ambassador Valdi?" Sparatus asked, wizened by experience with the Terrans "What did they do?"

"They took us from Terra is what they did, the bastards, took us from her! Slapped us into a realm that wanted us dead, they did. Stone-men with naught but strength and determination to fight against the beasts. They took us from our cousins!"

"Cousins?" Tevos asked, more curious by the second.

Valdi turned his head to Hackett and placed his hand on the Admirals arm who turned his head with a raised brow, equally curious. He hadn't read this bit.

"Our cousins." Valdi says with a mournful sigh.

"You were Human?" Esheel asks, curiosity piqued.

"A species of." Valdi nods, taking his hand away from Hackett as he turned to the Councilors again "We were the race the Humans have known as Homo Neanderthalensis. We're the descendants of those the Fae wanted dead. But we lived. Through it all, By the Sun and Moon we lived."

The council chambers were struck stupid at this news. An entire _species_? Forcefully meddled with, attempted at a slaughter, by these ancient creatures.

Councilor Tevos found herself clutching her iron pendant all the more fiercely now.

"Ambassador Orduk? Were your race formed in the same way?" Tevos asks, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

"As far as I know, no, Ma'am. Although I wouldn't be surprised if we were in some way Human once upon a time, considering our similarities. Though, sometimes I do wonder if indeed we were meddled in some way by the Fae."

"And your people?" Tevos asked Vahrek.

"My people were created by the Gods, children of the Sun Father and Moon Mother created us."

"Who are the Sun Father and Moon Mother?" Asked Sparatus "Your Gods I assume."

"They once were Dwarves, the greatest of the species that forcibly tamed the realm to a greater extent than any had before. Their God-children created us, the Ghurang, as druids and guides for the Dwarves, our companions. We're inseparable."

"The Gods created you?" Esheel questioned, she knew she couldn't deny their existence when they had so blatantly shown themselves on Khar'Shan.

"Yes. The Sun Father and Moon Mother ascended to Godhood when they fought their way from the dark caves of the realm to the skies and formed the first, sensible, thing the Realm had seen. Aldrich, the Sun Father, formed the sun and his wife Brunhildr, the Moon Mother formed the Moon to give us light in the hellish nights. Know, these names are simply the closest we can find in a Human language to their names. Aldrich and Brunhildr, when they rose to Godhood created many children during their war to tame the Realm and expand it while the Dwarves fought."

"One of these children, to the Humans he is known as Arnbjorn, is our God and the master of the Ghurang. Lord of Druids. We help to keep the realm mostly stable and the Dwarves tame it while the Gods expand it. We rely on each other."

"Correct," Sparatus nods respectively "We should continue to the point of this meeting."

"The High King has already passed his decision, Councilors, he will not sign the treaty or whatever it is that would constrict us. Just as the Humans did, we will remain independent, though I believe with time we could get more of a footprint and may begin trade."

"The Dragon Emperor of Dotoodyn has decreed the same," Orduk nods "We will stay with the Humans, they have been good to us."

The Councilors visibly deflate at that, but know that little will change their minds if they're anything like the Terrans.

"As you wish. Though any trade you offer will be appreciated. We would also like to learn your histories, if possible."

"In due time, Councilors, I promise you'll have the information." Orduk bows his head.

"Same from us, Councilors, we will have it to you."

The Councilors nodded "Thank you for meeting us today. This meeting is adjourned." Tevos bowed her head.

* * *

(Awwww shit man)

(So ya know that thing, where I said I was gonna hold off on posting until I had the Shepard twins chapters done? Know that thing? Yeah, fuck me right. Tell me whatcha think of the chapter!)


	92. An update long needed

This is the exact opposite of the kind of chapter I was hoping to post after so damned long of being away. But it's one I figure I have to make because there's a lot of people who follow this story. It's been a year. A long fucking year since I've updated at all and you have no idea how long I've been mean mugging my monitor wiling words to appear on the text documents so I have some material to post. The headaches it's given me and the amount of sleep I've lost trying to think of something to post.

Visions started as an experiment, a throwaway of vignettes of random shit with mass effect and dieselpunk mixed together like some unholy chimera. I figured I'd get _maybe_ one or two views. I got thousands and so many reviews wanting more. It shocked me stupid but i said "I'm doing it" and set my way to updating more. When I finished the Shanxi arc, I decided to upload the current incarnation of the story and have been trying to keep updating for..two years or so.

Now I know what this sounds like and no, I'm not leaving and Visions isn't dead and I'm not deleting the story or anything. I just felt fucking awful after only being able to reach out to a handful of the many that follow this story. I've been having a rough year, so writing hasn't happened. On top of that was how much I've been expanding my official universe and how much it affects Visions' own universe as a whole.

So fairly recently, I decided to start doing revisions of previous chapters. That's all well and good, but it practically negates anything I write upto the latest chapter. The story wouldn't go together because I'd be writing a different story than you, the reader, have experienced.

The overall tone will stay the same, the Terrans are as psychotically bipolar as ever, and people will be confounded by their "Idunnolol" attitudes toward things but much is going to change. So because of that I can't update until I revise upto the latest and make sure the story is coherent.

So keep an eye out on the chapters, because I'm revising them with more speed than a drunk turtle and I'm hoping to start getting Visions on track again.

I'm so very sorry. Again, this isn't what I wanted to post. I wanted to post a million word chapter that'd make your brain melt but that doesn't seem to be happening. If this is your breaking point I'm sorry, but I'm trying and I'm working my way back into the story. It just needs revision.

I'm sorry again. I hope you'll stick around and see what I change, because I've grown as a writer and want to try and show that.

Thanks for reading what you have. If you're sticking around, thanks so much. If not, I understand. I don't blame you either. I would too.

-Havok


	93. Redux prologue is live

Okay. Well, fuck me this is happening. The prologue to the Visions redux is live! For the forseeable future, this will be the last chapter uploaded to this version of the story. I hope you enjoy the new prologue and hope I can do better than I did here.

See you there.


End file.
